


DA042: Dream a Little Dream of Me

by Briala, Rhion



Series: Woven Songs - Tattered Towers (metaverse) [2]
Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Origins, Dragon Age: Origins - Awakening
Genre: AU, Alternate Universe, Angst, Drama, F/M, Family, Fluff, Het, Het and Slash, Living with trauma, M/M, Multi, Romance, Slash, Worldbuilding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-22
Updated: 2016-05-06
Packaged: 2018-03-19 03:35:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 134,571
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3594849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briala/pseuds/Briala, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Do me a favour - the next time I dream this, could you just hit me over the head until it gets through to me?</p><p>Note: Finished for now.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [DA041: Fiercely Cold](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1864497) by [Briala](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Briala/pseuds/Briala), [Rhion](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Rhion/pseuds/Rhion). 



> Random character mumbling by Ferox lead to this hypothetical thing that could have happened during the Blight. That spawned a story. Moderately beta’d, but there’s certainly going to be things that slipped through the cracks. :evil grin: Hello punnage, how are you?

The snow was falling in earnest and they weren’t particularly well protected, but the camp was fine anyway, of which Ferox made doubly sure during the many times he couldn’t sleep. The bonfire was larger than usual, and everyone had appropriate gear. But that didn’t explain why there was a body in his bedroll, doubled into a tight ball with the mabari whining, head on the form. Ferox only knew it was the elf because of the blanket atop Ferox’s was green and mottled for camouflage and no one else’s was like that. 

Throat caught on a growl at the intrusion, Ferox entered fully and tied the tent flap closed. The fact that the assassin barely twitched made him growl more - it meant nothing good. Tugging off a glove, he pushed a hand beneath the blankets to find Zevran’s face, and it was cool. Cursing he stripped away his own outer garments, piling them atop the supine form before crawling beneath the great weight in leggings and shirtsleeves. What had to be every scrap of clothing Zevran owned was bundled around him and still did nothing - obviously bundling up didn’t help much if someone didn’t produce much body heat in the first place.

Another check proved that yes, the Crow was still breathing. Prying at the layers of clothes, trying to work some of the warming air coming from himself and Horse to where it was needed, Ferox angrily wondered why nothing had been said. While layering was good, the shirts he touched were extremely thin, nearly what he would consider summer-weight, unfit for Ferelden autumns and certainly unwise for winter. 

Teeth chattered and a grunt, the elf went stiff, assessing eyes finding his, everything clearly sluggish, “ _Meldicion._ A moment and I will be out of your way.” 

“No,” snapping at him, Ferox continued peeling layers off and then arranging them beneath and above the assassin to try and insulate while providing the necessary heat. “Stay still.”

The hound burrowed beneath the pile, sandwiching Zevran between them as the Crow began to shake in earnest, for once quiet. Even the brief chattering of teeth stopped almost as soon as it started. Still it was a good sign that the assassin’s temperature was steadily rising. In the night, drifting off to sleep, Ferox hoped that his end would be quick, the assassin’s work finally finished.

Coming in from watch another night, Ferox found the elf in his pallet once more, the hound an even larger mound beside him. A few licks and the Crow awoke with a groan and curse, along with an accusation that the mabari hadn’t awoken him until _after_ Ferox was in the tent. Growling but resigned - until they found a town to buy better supplies, or bandits to kill and gather up their supplies - Zevran couldn’t be allowed to remain alone, else he might not wake up ever again.

Checking and putting away the unneeded gear, piling anything possible atop the bedroll even as the assassin was trying to clamber free, Ferox snarled at him, “Lay back down.”

“Why, Warden, you only have but to ask,” it was sarcastic even as he did as told. 

Even as wolves, bears, but mostly wolves, were skinned and their pelts left unsold so they could be layered for warmth, Zevran still wound up in Ferox’s tent nightly. He kept to himself in the night beyond pressing his back against Ferox’s side, arms looped around the mabari’s neck, face in the massive shoulder. And each day, Ferox awoke, vaguely disappointed that his eyes opened at all. If the assassin’s plan was to lull him into a sense of safety, it wasn’t necessary. Watches and hunting and chores were still done the same, in fact Ferox doubted anyone noticed Zevran’s comings and goings - before the camp was awake, the elf would be gone. 

Non-vital injuries were tended alone, or had been, but that was no longer the case. Zevran would crack a lid to see what Ferox was doing after entering the tent, sit up and set to work. No words were exchanged, the poke of needle deft and fast, or the wipe and pack of wounds surprisingly painless, all done without fuss. But that didn’t make things easier, or make Ferox long to be out of the mountains and for enough gear for the damnable elf to require the services of someone with a bit of body-heat to spare.

Zevran slipped in from middle-watch, shuddering and shaking as the hound made room so that Ferox didn’t have to move. That was going to have to change. The assassin shouldn’t be out and exposed in the night with no one to double check he didn’t freeze, and considering how he would be gone by the time Ferox awoke, that meant he was better suited to last watch. 

Gritting his teeth as the elf got settled in, “I’m surprised you haven’t turned your charm towards finding someone else to shove cold feet against.”

A soft sigh of relief laden pain, hands rubbing vigorously at pale tinted ears, vaguely acerbic and rolled eyes, “Oh yes, I did not think of that. At all. Your sunny disposition was the first person that came to mind, Warden. Either I was laughed off or a threatened fire spell was nearly summoned.”

“You need better quality clothes,” as he began going over what had been collected. 

“My clothes are of good quality - just unsuited to your frigid country,” Zevran sighed scooting away to give more room, crowding the mabari who didn’t seem to mind the Crow at all.

The next night Ferox’s tent was empty, including the mabari. If it kept the elf from bothering him, Ferox could deal with it. But the next day the assassin’s muscles apparently had been stiff from cold and the cornered drake had spun on the assassin as he crept up, even as Ferox sought to keep the overgrown lizard’s attention on himself, like a flash striking forward and mauling through light leathers as Zevran sought to dodge. Wynne had her hands full that afternoon, impromptu camp set up, the Crow quipping and bothering the healer, expression smooth but eyes tight, bronze skin pale with blood loss. 

That evening, as Zevran looked over the new armour Ferox handed dear coin over for, he growled at the elf, “My tent.” 

There was no choice for it, so Ferox resigned himself to it. Everyone worked together seamlessly, and he worked ever harder at being what each needed. Laying awake, the still recovering elf beside him, he stared at the ceiling of the tent. The watches had been long since adjusted, armour was supplied, clothing would be next. Zevran reminded him of nothing so much as a child that went out with just a light shirt in rain and snow when at the least several layers and a thick cloak would be needed. He also watched how the Antivan ate and having seen him in limited amount of clothing, it was obvious there wasn’t even a token scrap of fat on the lean body, and that meant there was nothing at all to protect him and nothing extra to burn for vital interior heat. Some of the flesh sagged as though muscle mass and earlier stores had been lost or left to fade, a puzzle that Ferox didn’t waste time on, instead just making himself sit beside the Crow to ensure that they ate the same amount and that when his own bowl was empty and refilled, so was Zevran’s, and Ferox would just stare hard at any odd glance from the gesture. 

Even when it came from a pair of amber eyes.

Wolf fur trimmed most of Zevran’s clothes in short order, gaps well rimed with more. The next time they brought down a bear, the assassin gathered up the fat much to Alistair’s disgust and confusion, the others figuring it for eccentricity, but Ferox was more surprised that the Crow knew that trick. Jiggling globules were in the stew the next meal, everyone too hungry to notice, but the thick taste of bear meat and extra fat was familiar. Outside of the tent, Zevran was his usual self, never shutting up, even as he toasted slices of meat beside the fire, separating a tub of the fat gathered earlier and working it into his armour all at the same time. 

Normally Ferox valued the quiet and not having to hear the Crow ramble, at least when in the tent, but he asked, “If you knew how to do all that, why didn’t you do it before?”

Zevran was checking the stitching on Ferox’s cloak, adding an extra ruff of fur around the shoulders and neck, not looking up from the work, “Hmn, why indeed? I did not plan on an extended stay in Ferelden, Warden.”

“That doesn’t answer the question,” growling, wanting the elf to just be straight out and tell him why he had been helpless when he clearly wasn’t actually helpless.

“Ah, but it does. Perhaps expanded you will understand - I did not plan on an extended stay in _Thedas_ either, yes?” An exasperated sigh came when Ferox didn’t move or say anything, as he was trying to process what that might mean. “I had wished to fail in my contract, Warden. Throwing myself at a pair of Wardens, recruits or not as I have never heard of the order taking in the useless and weak, seemed a likely way of removing myself from this plane of existence. Is that answer sufficient enough to satisfy you?”

Snorting as his brow rose, “So why offer your services after you were beaten, only to give up in the snow?”

“Because that is not your business and is impertinent I should turn the question around, fierce one, and ask why you wish to die, yet continue onwards? The reasons cannot be all that different,” for once the look sent his way was strange but easily identified - measuring and weighing each flicker. “But I did not give up in the cold, I merely did not complain or ask for things the way others have and seek to exceed the constraints placed upon me. There is a difference, Lord Cousland. You and I work with what we have, and ask for no more, and if failure happens because of it, then we were not good enough to survive it.” 

Taking his cloak from the Antivan’s hands and pulling on his boots, Ferox yielded the tent.

Later Zevran came out, the time for last watch at hand. Snow was set to melt and boil, a handful of precious gathered herbs thrown in it to make it palatable. “My last mission, the one before this one, did not go well. No, that is to say it went well enough, but someone under my care died for foolish reasons. And I allowed it. Agreed to it even. As she lay there, her blood soaking my boots, I spit on her and the love she had sworn to me. Death would be the easy way out, even delivered at another’s hands and would not allow me the justified suffering I deserve for what I did and did not do. Go to bed Warden. You will do no good to those who you lead if you are not remotely rested. Seeking death is all well and good so long as you do not drag others down with you.”

He did as instructed, just to escape. 

Sufficient gear in place, warmer areas, at least relatively, of Ferelden gained, Ferox believed that for once he could sleep alone. But the damned elf was there, coming awake enough to groan and scoot, making room, just as he had every night since forever it felt like. Rubbing his temples Ferox had struggled, got nearly as far as taking off the outermost layers, before he couldn’t take it and began to dress once more. A hand came out, brown fingers curling around his forearm and tugging him to the pallet.

“Sleep, my Warden.” 

Several times Ferox tried to switch tents - Zevran in Ferox’s tent, Ferox in Zevran’s. All that happened was twenty minutes after laying down, there was an elf and hound beside him. Then when he tried reversing that choice, still, within minutes, just as Ferox got settled in the Crow would show up, until he gave into having company whether he wanted it or not. It went like that for so long Ferox no longer had the energy to growl every time he went to bed and when Zevran began sleeping facing him, an arm over his waist, forehead pressed to his shoulder, Ferox gave up. The growling didn’t deter the damnable elf, arguing or seeking to put him off was like trying to tell the sun not to rise. Implacable as a coming dawn or sunset, the assassin was immovable except under his own will and power.

But it meant he was trapped, and if there was one thing that Ferox despised, it was being trapped. It didn’t matter that the snare was one of his own devising, or at least a design he had improved upon so that its hold didn’t bite as deeply into his leg. It was still a trap and it held him with a loose arm and breath working its way through his sleeve as it slept.

Closing his eyes as Zevran finished winding a poultice laden bandage around his arm, Ferox growled. The elf didn’t reply, hands leaving his skin, but just as Ferox was about to grab his shirt to pull it back on, oddly slick palms slid over his shoulders. Going stiff, ready to question, the words stilled in his throat as thumbs dug into a tight group of muscles, somehow managing to make the knot loosen. 

“What are you doing?” he finally managed as he was pressed down onto the combined bedrolls.

“Tchk, you are so tense, my dear Warden, it is criminal. Think of this as the same as tending to stitches and poultices, no more,” steady and firm of voice and hands, Ferox couldn’t stop himself from allowing it. 

If this was how the Crow would finally end his misery, he could accept it he guessed. It wouldn’t be any different than the assassin slipping a blade between his ribs as he slept. When the massage became a nightly occurrence, Ferox was at a loss. But it wasn’t...bad...he decided. So he allowed it with only token snarls. At some point the Crow had told him in no uncertain terms that since his legs were what carried the weight of armour, pack and body, he had to have access to those as well. Those were good reasons, along with the fact that walking throughout Ferelden, often having to backtrack or cut new trails, was what made him relinquish and give in to that order. He hadn’t regretted that at least, as for once his legs quit screaming and even his feet felt less abused. 

But Zevran asked for nothing, even then, his presence remaining constant and unending.

After returning to Ostagar during the nightly massage, Ferox was almost asleep, familiar with hands on his buttocks and the backs of his thighs, the weight settled and straddling him, a finger went somewhere where it _did not_ belong. At least not Zevran’s - but that was not anything he wished to think about. Coming awake quickly, ready to struggle, a palm pushed firmly on the small of his back.

“It is just a massage, Warden. Relax,” Zevran’s voice slid into his head, somehow like a deep drink of some dwarf’s vile brew. “There is no need to be so tense.”

Snarling, “I was not tense until -”

The finger slid in circling and rubbing as it slid in and out, silencing his words but not the growls. Or the anger. It didn’t matter how good it felt, or how strangely relaxing, the choice had been removed. There was no way to fight. There was no defense. The only person to ever touch him like that was dead, gone, and this was wrong. 

Strangling, “Stop.”

The fingers stilled, tone conversational, “There is a saying that a man’s soul is stored here -” a demonstrating stroke followed. “Love grief is pent up in this space, it needs to be released so that it does not turn to a festering wound.” A long boned hand began kneading the small of Ferox’s back soothingly, “It is nothing more than a healing touch, Warden. I will take care of you as you have taken care of me, nothing more, nothing less. Be angry and direct it later, for now, let me tend the wound and do what I can.”

He was forced to vulnerability, to trust even a little. The surety and gentleness of the touch made it worse in some ways. Rory and he hadn’t been anywhere near that experienced, they could find what felt good, but there were other things in those long gone touches. Want, desire. Zevran hadn’t lied, it was the touch of a healer being used, no different than the massage of any other set of muscles. As the pressure built, his thoughts spiraled tighter, making him think, making him feel - all things he didn’t want. Probably because he no longer knew how to handle that. Biting his tongue as he was struck by a sudden crash, Ferox wept bitter and angry tears - he hadn’t wanted to think. To feel. But he had and it had been good and it had been frightening. Zevran’s hands once more returned to the full body massage, seeking to give him something that Ferox couldn’t understand at all. Not at the moment. Sure hands guided and helped him back into his trews as he fought to regain his scattered wits. 

“You - you don’t get to do that to me,” hoarse with too many emotions, anger being the easiest, most palatable one to identify. 

The Crow lay down, settling in for the night as though he hadn’t done anything, “It was not sex, Ferox. It was clinical, yes? No different than what I have consistently done for you. No different than Wynne’s healing spells. Only the way we look at it is different.” Ferox began to sit up, “Ferox - healing is unpleasant. It hurts. It is frightening. But if left to your own devices, you would chew your limbs off and die rather than let someone free you from the frozen trap of your anger and grief. I will leave you be tonight if that is your wish, yet it seems unwise to leave you in such a state unattended. Memories will come, they always do when we are pressed in unwanted if necessary directions.”

Furious, “Touch me again and you’ll wish you chewed that arm off.”

The despicable elf had been right. Memories had come. They came every night, no matter that the Antivan hadn’t touched him again below the waist, not even to rub his feet. But somehow it had been impossible to deny the upper body being eased, at least after the memories would strike. It would be the only way to find any rest. The hound hadn’t even growled at Zevran or his actions, not any of them. He felt betrayed, almost, until a large head would shove its way underneath a hand, a soft whine of sympathy when the memories attacked. The hound had been there too, he knew, and he had lost them all as well.

Another thing the Antivan had been right about - the anger was good fuel to direct. 

In the Deep Roads, the close terror of twisted and ruined lives, the knowledge of where darkspawn came from, or at least how they were birthed, left him laying awake with the shakes. There was no comfort to be had, not even the mabari could help. In the night, not that time could be told - they slept when they were too tired to keep going - the nightmares were impossible to escape.

A hand found its way to his head, thumb massaging a temple, “Do not listen to the voice, _amora._ ”

Startled from the dazed staring, perhaps sleeping, “What?”

“Do not listen to the voice that you say calls you,” beside him Zevran shifted, sounding fatigued. “It has no power over you. You do not belong to it. It cannot own you.”

It was so dark, too dark. 

“Shh,” the Antivan crooned, for a moment blotting out the sound of the Archdemon. “You are here, you are Ferox Cousland, Warden and leader. They cannot touch you, they have no hold over you.”

“They’re too loud, too real,” his mouth didn’t check with his head, compelled by the much closer and immediate demon beside him.

“May I help you?” 

He tried to say ‘no’. Instead, “Please.”

Arms slid around him, the smell of leather, sweat and foreign land, something akin to the smell of the sun brought down to the Deep Roads wrapped around him. Shuddering in that embrace, the hand gently guiding his head into the crook of neck, Ferox’s eyes clenched shut. In his mind corn silk blond hair, reflecting sunlight, eyes of a deep pooled amber, flesh browned to a striking bronze, all things sun and warmth, shining even in the filth and dark pit of the Deep Roads. Inhaling that scent, he clutched at the shirt, at the shoulder and sinew beneath it, clinging to that lifeline to the above. 

“Don’t let me die here in the dark,” muttering as he quaked, helpless against the constant grinding song of the darkspawn.

“I am your man, until such a time as you choose to release me,” so steady, so calm, where the Crow found it when all Ferox wanted to do was crawl back to the surface, Ferox didn’t care, only absurdly grateful that it was there. “You will not die in this place, Ferox. This I swear.” 

The next stop Ferox remained strong until the others went quiet, then the Archdemon’s song and the slithering of darkspawn minds plucking at his began once more.

“Ferox, _amora._ They cannot touch you,” whispered in his ear, guiding him back, or at least trying to.

He wasn’t able to reply to the spiced voice, being caught in the song. 

“Come back to us, to me,” the words were the same, different songs, different voices. One of sun and warmth and above, the other of dark and black fire and cloying earth traps. 

He could answer neither.

Something slick touched his mouth, something strong pried at his lips, then _sunlight._ It had a taste as well as a smell. There was texture too, and sound. As it pulled away, frightened and mindless not wishing to lose that last gasp of air, Ferox grabbed for it.

“It is alright, _amora_ ,” Zevran - or was it the sun? - who spoke. “If you could wait to chew off my arm until we are shut of this place, it would allow me to remain useful awhile longer, hmn?”

“Don’t forsake me,” fingers digging in, refusing to let go, pleading in that dark place with the dark scratching, the only right thing there and it was half ready to leave him. “I won’t chew off your arm, just...just don’t...don’t leave me here.”

Lips touched his briefly, companionably, the only time he had ever been kissed like that. “I will not leave you behind. It is not your time, and will not be for a great many years yet, yes? Rely upon me and I will work very hard to not let you down.”

By the time they found Caridan, Zevran was having to spend minutes kissing him to keep Ferox present and sane enough to not answer the song, at least a little bit. He was too desperate to complain, to recoil or snarl. Death didn’t bother him, but dying down in the terrible dark, earth pressing down on him - no, he couldn’t do that, although that bright lava looked very tempting. If the Antivan’s mouth on his, the smell of skin was what it took to have even a faint whiff of fresh air and sunlight, then he would find a way to deal. Anything to not be drowning in stone and sluggish black blood.

Even as they left, or at least attained Orzammar, Ferox had to struggle. The entire time cursing Duncan and the fact that having Joined during a Blight left him so vulnerable, the scrabbling noises and whispers were enough to make him lose his mind. It got so bad that as soon as the others were settled, he would drag Zevran to him quickly, a shield against the worst nightmare of his life that didn’t seem to ever end. Only warmth and steadiness resided in that embrace. As much as he had despised the earlier lack of reaction, that impregnable fortress that could not be breached or roused to anger, now he was grateful for it. It was an anchor, needed as surely as food and water and air.

Long, nut brown hands guided his to the firm line of chest, beneath the shirt, feeling the reality there. A drumbeat of heart, the echo of fresh winds, the taste of sun in his mouth - that kept him alive enough to survive until they finally were outside. When night fell and they were in tents, blessed tents on ground that did not spread to be overhead, Zevran was still there, recently scrubbed from Behlen’s baths, the only thing requested, having left the group long enough to do that. Everyone else had been of a mind that even the cold of the Frostbacks was preferable to being buried beneath stone for a moment longer than absolutely necessary. 

Ferox paced the perimeter, unsure that the Crow would return. He had left Ferox, left the group after setting up the camp with them. It left him cursing, cursing himself, cursing Duncan, cursing Zevran. The elf had become a crutch, a vulnerable chink in armour that was necessary. Nothing could change the relief when a leather and wool clad shadow broke free of deeper, darker shadows, passing him but pausing long enough to glance at him before crawling into a tent. Fighting himself, Ferox swore vehemently. 

And still entered his own tent. 

Zevran was there, scrubbed clean, impossibly clean, fresh and crisp as the liquid gold of a late summer afternoon on a grassy bank. The long-sleeved outer jacket, fur lined and sturdy was unfastened, set aside, clean shirt beneath it also removed followed by boots and socks and the outer leather pants, leaving him in the thinner wool leggings. A jar was produced, one of several unguents that he always kept.

“Would you like a massage to rid you of the last of the Deep Roads’ tension, _amora_?”

Yes, he would. “No.”

“As you desire,” jar opened anyway, the contents being rubbed in to bronze flesh of chest, working at muscles that must be equally tired. 

How it happened, Ferox could only guess at. Gathering up a scoop of the salve he began mimicking the familiar and comfortable touch at shoulders, doing the giving instead of receiving. Zevran tensed, surprised, a minor victory for Ferox he supposed. Still his hands began to find a pattern to the flow of muscle, the stark black lines guiding the massage. Without thought he continued lower until a hand twisted back, fingers curling around his wrist.

“Not that I would mind your hands lower, but if you do that, I cannot guarantee that you will wish to refrain from ripping a limb or three or possibly even all five, from my body. Those limbs enable me to be moderately useful to you, _amora_ ,” the warning gentle. 

Frowning, Ferox didn’t understand, saying it accusingly, “You said that there was nothing sexual - ”

“Because you have no interest in me, of course that meant there was nothing to that. For me, it is different. Allowing you to touch me when my interests lie in your direction...? It makes for...complications.” Zevran let his hand go, “What little distance I have from you that you require of me will be breached. Not that I would attack you, I am not a barbarian. But you will be...displeased.”

“In the Deep Roads there was...” searching for a word.

“That was for survival and the only reason you allowed it,” too calm, yet muscles had tightened - visibly even - beneath Ferox’s hands. “It was something you required and allowed me to give. _This_ is not like that. No matter, I will accept whatever you are willing to give, and will keep my word.”

It was a trap, one that would rip his legs out from under him, making him useless. That much Ferox knew of for certain. The dependence - it was something he couldn’t allow. Even if he knew he already had, no matter the justification that he had been in the dark, had been swallowed whole by a hole in the ground, had been buried alive. But there had been choice there, even if it would have destroyed him, his mind scrabbling over it screaming that it was no real choice.

The clean warm skin beneath his hands remained tense, but as always the assassin was steady. Inhumanly so. Being there, returning to the tent - those had been choices. It meant replacing Rory with someone who let the world walk past, immovable and unimpressed by the failings and successes of others unless he chose to be. Ferox knew he didn’t want to be alone. Being surrounded by idiots who had an idealistic worldview that was going to get them all killed notwithstanding.

Except Zevran. 

“Too bad this isn’t a ploy to get in my tent to kill me,” squeezing, putting pressure on the waist, uncertain, not comprehending how someone who was so implacable wanted anything to do with him.

“Hmn, yes, it would be rather masterful, no?” the muscles remained tense but loosened just a fraction as though the Antivan knew he had made a decision. “Except the minor fact that your need and friendship brought me back from the brink. Purpose. Such an odd word. Even when the world is tumbling down like a pile of bricks, purpose stops us from curling up and letting them fall as they will. It keeps us going until we figure out what it is to live again.”

The longer Ferox stared at the bronzed skin, the more he realized that the texture and grain of it was finer and smoother than his own. That there were flecks of all shades of brown and gold there, some of them throwing back the little bit of light as though someone had sprinkled gold dust into the skin. It was too bright, Zevran was too hot, like trying to grab the sun. Foolish in the above, no matter how necessary in a living grave.

“Is that what it is?” hands withdrawing, looking away no matter that it was terrifying to do both. 

“No. But it is difficult to remain in tight quarters and not learn the person beside you, especially if they talk in their sleep. For the record, I did not carve my name in your thigh the afternoon we met, no matter how many different languages and the several scripts I know,” the Crow sat up slowly and reached for his earlier discarded shirt. “It is hard to not develop feelings when confronted with someone who puts others first, who, no matter how angry and frightened they are, still manages thoughtfulness. Kindness. Perhaps a dose of infatuation at first, true. Definitely several doses of mutual need. But, ah, it is a moot point, hmn?” The cloth covered that skin, making the tent’s confines somehow dimmer, a smile turned Ferox’s way. “I will still my chatter now so that we may sleep, my Warden. Do not worry - I will not abandon you, nor will I press you again, even though things do not go the way I wished they could.”

Stopping the elf from laying back down with a touch at the broad shoulder that was a struggle to give, “Why did you take off your shirt?”

“Because my skin was chapped and I did not take the time to put salve on after bathing. The longer I took to return to camp, the greater the chances someone still agitated by our weeks underground would attack first, ask questions of a corpse later when I sought to return. My ability to tell time is muffled beneath all that stone and dirt, as is, I took longer than intended.” A slight frown turned the full lips down, “Why do you ask?”

“It wasn’t a ploy?”

“The only ‘ploy’ involved here these months was feigning deeper sleep so that you were less likely to snarl at me and kick me out,” the answer honest, earnest. “It felt safe being beside you, a novel experience for me, to be safe for hours at a time, when the last I can remember anything similar, I was a boy and not yet sold to the Crows. I found it...I find it...very difficult to cope with the thought of giving it up.”

Finding a way to give permission, one that didn’t expose his flank or a kidney, “Then don’t.”

“Thank you,” it was like a weight had been lifted from the assassin’s shoulders as he got situated once more. 

Snuffing the camp lantern, Ferox thought he had been clear, was tensed and waiting for whatever the Crow thought needed to come next or wanted of him. The arm over his waist, the forehead pressed to his shoulder - all known things. No kiss, no arms tugging him in close. He hadn’t been clear enough. Even as his eyes adjusted to the dark, Ferox couldn’t stand it, it was too soon, the Deep Roads was still in his head and in his nose. There had been no sunshine beating down on him to remind him of the present and keep him there. 

Choking on that fear that there was only stone overhead, that he had somehow dreamed the sky, “Zevran.”

Beside him the elf shifted a hand cupping his cheek, the hint of hesitation just barely perceptible, “What is it?”

“They’re still there.”

“Ah.”

Once more his senses filled with golden reality but the slick stroke of tongue over his was tender instead of merely reassuring. For those long seconds, Ferox didn’t have to think, only hang on. And when the invasion of mind finally receded, he still hung on. He could think of nothing else that he could make himself do to show he had given in, the earlier signals having come too late or the option of them taken away because he had not acted fast enough. A tentative touch of Zevran’s mouth to his after they finally broke apart and Ferox parted his lips in silent reply. After each pause there was another taste of sunshine waiting, testing or exploring slowly, leaving him to wonder how many different ways a person could kiss the other without moving away from lips, teeth and tongue.

At night after the lantern was blown out, Zevran’s arms would reach for him, the first kiss always there to reassure. The second to _be_ reassured. By the time the last would come, it would be one of thanks. Hands returned to kneading muscles, switching off nightly. No more than that, just touch, kiss and sleep. Ferox tried to tell himself it wasn’t frightening, with moderate success. With a start, he realized that the Crow took no more than could be given, placed no pressure, and he awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of heavier breathing beside him that took him a moment to understand. The sound of nearly silent self-pleasure done rapidly in the dark, as though it had become a habit and long practice ended with a very quiet growl and a sigh into the side of Ferox’s shoulder followed by lips pressing through the linen once. Ferox didn’t reveal that he had heard anything or that he had awoken.

Another day meant another night. Another night meant more taste and texture and sound filling his senses. Instead of allowing the Crow to settle down beside him, Ferox wrapped an arm around him, pulling him to his side. Several nights of that came and went before he once more awoke, the hand trapped between Ferox’s hip and Zevran’s moving with purpose until the smell of release filled the air, and he knew by morning it would always be gone. Tightening his arm around the elf as the expected kiss to the nearest available part came, he delivered one of his own to the flaxen crown.

Apologetic whisper, “ _Amora_? I did not mean to awaken you, forgive me please.”

“I know what ‘amour’ is in Orlesian,” choosing his words carefully.

Zevran went still, “Do you now?”

“The first time - the Deep Roads, you said it then.”

“Yes, I did,” it was readily admitted. A nervous pause, “I would stop if you wish it of me.” 

“I like it better than ‘Warden’, for all I know, you’re talking to Alistair.” 

An indelicate snort, “I would hope that you do not think insults and the like, such as I fling at him, are the sort I would ever direct at you, as I do not think the name ‘Chantry Boy’ could possibly be applied to your handsome self.”

“ _Amora_ and handsome - that’s laying it on thickly,” a rumble found its way to his throat.

“Both true, but one is description, one is a state of being,” it sounded far too reasonable, the way most things did coming from that mind. 

“Don’t worry about waking me up.”

The taste was in his mouth, the end of a day no matter how tiring or frustrating would be rewarded with a blast of warmth. Laying on their sides in the dark, Zevran’s lips left his, not going far, just moving to touch somewhere else, the side of his neck, breathing deep of whatever the day had coated Ferox in. Dust and sweat mostly, or so Ferox found himself hoping, not wanting to offend, having at some point realized just how acute the elf’s senses were, by offhand and random comments. 

Zevran shifted closer, the hard line of Ferox’s erection noticeable, “May I? Do - do you wish me to -”

He found his fingers tangling in Zevran’s hair, lips seeking once again. A moan vibrated into his mouth, long brown fingers dug at his hip and there was a roll of hips. He hadn’t realized that he had been hiding his own arousal from the elf until the surprised and pleased sound issued as, through the light wool, their cocks ground against each other. He wasn’t ready for that, wasn’t sure - _Wasn’t a lot of things_ \- so instead of letting a hand slip into his pants, he took Zevran’s and guided it back to the straining need that the Crow sated each night. The sounds of his pleasure were audible but not loud, tempting Ferox repeatedly with a quiet groan or hungry kiss that was reciprocated, giving what he could to Zevran until the elf went stiff with a harsh series of panting, gasping into the crook of Ferox’s neck. Squeezing Zevran tightly, Ferox managed several more long kisses before he had to stop or just give in to the way the elf tasted and smelled and sounded and felt. 

Why did he resist each night? It was getting difficult to remember, his own want building to confusing and epic proportions. The comforting weight was on his thighs, the heels of palms digging in and smoothing out the areas that a healing spell couldn’t help. 

“ _Amora_ ,” palms sliding over the small of his back, hands coming to rest lightly on his buttocks. “I should like to touch you here. To bring you good feelings, yes? If you were to allow it of course.”

Biting the inside of his cheek, rumbling, “Don’t have to do that. There’s no debt, but...”

Zevran’s weight stretched out slowly along Ferox’s back, “But I _want_ to bring you good feelings.”

“Last time the...that which followed was not pleasant. I’d prefer to be able to sleep without the nightmares of fires and screaming in the night, thank you.”

“It would be different, the...the intent of the touch is different. I want to smooth that away.” A cheek rested between his shoulder blades. “May I touch you some other way then?”

Managing, “Not tonight. Soon....” Mentally scrambling as Zevran’s weight began to slip away, wanting to stop it from leaving him, “Some other way how?”

The Crow paused, lips pressed to the back of a shoulder, “My mouth, my body, my hands on your length, you inside me - there are many other ways.” Coming to rest beside him, Zevran’s voice was gentle, “Soon is soon enough, _amora_.”

Burying his face in the folded cloak that smelled of foreign lands and sun, “I have had only one and as you have heard the whispered tale from Leliana, and whatever I have muttered out in my sleep, you can guess how that tale ends, even if the details of him holding the gate...for our escape...is not said or known by any other than two amongst the living.”

In the dim light of the lantern, bare as he was, Ferox was excruciatingly brought back to how vulnerable he was making himself, not just physically, but mentally as well. Strong hands pulled the blanket up before working their way under his chest to tug him in. The Antivan was very quiet, allowing him to hide his face in the column of brown skin.

Finally, “Three amongst the living know then. Three amongst the living know that there was love. Inexperience or experience do not matter in the face of that, _amora._ What was done, was done out of love.”

It wasn’t just the gate that was being referred to. Ferox suspected it was everything, from start to finish, not just his own life but others. It was unknown how that could apply, just that it likely did. 

Thinking of those who had loved and been loved, “None of it was given lightly and I couldn’t begin to do so now.”

“No more than you are willing to give, _amora._ And I will give no more and no less than I am able.” An aquiline nose pressed to Ferox’s temple, “I am yours.”

A shudder rippled through him and Ferox frowned with his confusion, “Why? Why do you say that you are mine?” It was too much responsibility. He had the others to take care of, a Blight to somehow end before it spread. But this was personal, it wasn’t duty.

“Why? Because I chose to be,” a caress to his shoulders, an inhale as though Ferox were fresh air or something equally pleasing. “With you, I belong, with you, I am safe, with you, I am...perhaps not wanted...but...accepted, yes, that I am. With you, I am at peace except for when you suffer and there is nothing that I can do.”

A growl worked up, anger at the mere thought, suddenly overwhelming, “Whoever said that you are not wanted is going to spar with me tomorrow.”

“It is - Ferox, I am a slave, I am a tool, I am a pest, and I am frequently difficult to deal with - there is nothing to want there beyond continued usefulness, it need not be said by anyone,” rueful self-depreciation. “Tools are replaceable, interchangeable, if one only looks hard enough. They are not thought of until needed, otherwise they are set aside in favour of other things. That is how life is.”

No one in his life was replaceable or interchangeable. Otherwise he wouldn’t bleed so much to keep those he could, safe. “You are not an object. You are you and irreplaceable.” 

Perhaps they were both taken aback by his vehemence. 

“As you say, _amora._ ” 

“Tomorrow be ready for that sparring session.”

The massage was good, it always was, but it was accompanied by kissing this time. The side of his neck, a shoulder, along his spine. Rumbling, “What are you doing?”

“Apologies for presuming,” they stopped, hands returning to their work.

Grunting, “I didn’t say ‘stop’ - I asked what you were doing. Or perhaps more accurately - why?”

“Kissing your broad back, the one I am heartily glad accepted the healing from that last fight,” again the mouth touched him. “It was worrisome to have to wait to check on you.” A sore spot was found, then oddly enough licked once. “I was afraid for you.”

“Good news - we found new armour while destroying my old stuff.” Grunting as another of those very distracting licks took place, clearly not intended to be erotic, felt more like an animal cleaning a wound - one that wasn’t there anymore, certainly, but that was what it felt like. “But afraid? Why? Thought you weren’t going to get to finish that contract yourself?”

Zevran stopped mid-swipe, sat up and left the tent without saying a word, gone too fast for Ferox to say anything else. 

Much later the assassin reentered the tent, crawling in beside Ferox who hadn’t been able to sleep. And Horse’s look at him had been particularly reproachful, reminding him of what he had been told. About a girl that Zevran had let die, one that loved him. One he had spit on. One that, by her death, made him leave his warm homeland for dank and damp Ferelden, with not a scrap of extra on his bones, and work himself until he was ready to drop. Until he _did_ drop, hypothermia set in and if Ferox had allowed the elf to go back to his own tent that night, that drop likely would have been permanent.

“I will not kill you unless you ask me to,” was all that was said. “Unless you are so mangled that there was no hope for recovery, then I would kill you if there was no way to save you. Other than those instances - _no_.”

Then he rolled on his side, back pressed to Ferox’s arm.

Following cautiously, he lay a hand on the upturned hip. “I meant to tease, but I failed utterly and I’m sorry to have said those words. However, I do appreciate the clarification, as I don’t think anyone other than Sten, who would be left frustrated at the lack of leadership, would assist or understand about relieving that sort of misery.”

“It is alright, a...sensitive topic. We both have them, _amora._ ” Zevran twisted in his arms gingerly. “But I would not harm you if it could ever be helped. We have both done our fair share of killing, we have both suffered loss. There are many things you and I have done, but the one that I hope and pray to never repeat is to take the life of someone...precious...to me. Yet I also know that there are some cases where death is the only safety and rescue that can be given.”

Taking the peace offering and forgiveness, “That is...very true.” Falling silent for a time, Ferox reached for the thoughts he didn’t usually let himself think. “When this is over, this damnable Blight - what do you intend to do next? Ideas? Plans?”

“I should like to go to Antiva, but to do so I would have to deal with the House of Crows. Doing that alone would be...problematic. Suicide frankly.”

“So a written apology and a nice gift basket wouldn’t go over very well?”

Chuckling, “No, _amora_ , it would not. A pity. However, in lieu of you and I going to Antiva and showing you the sights, I would be more than content on faithfully following you, so long as I was allowed to remain by your side, ad infinitum.”

“Supposedly Wardens give up everything. Which I think is _incredibly_ stupid, but then again it was what Duncan said, so - that makes it automatically suspect...” Grumbling but not particularly displeased - the sun laughed and it was warm. “Either way, unless my older brother Fergus shows up, which is improbable to say the least - he was at Ostagar too, on a patrol, right in front of the horde I might add, technically I’m the Teyrn of Highever. At least until that’s taken away too.”

Calloused fingers smoothed over his cheek, “You could be a pauper with not a single bit to your name, and I would still remain by your side and count myself lucky. Though I would likely steal us enough coin so that there was some form of roof over our heads.”

“Well, depending on Loghain swaying Anora...and the little thing with Howe, you may get your wish of living in a barn with a pauper...although I have managed to sweet talk no small amount of coin out of Bodahn myself.” 

“In that case, Antiva is warm and the food is good - and work is plentiful, no?”

“Just how many languages _do_ you speak?”

“Ten, though only four of them fluently, and three are functionally dead, why?” 

Shrugging in the dark, trying to come up with what ten languages there _were_ in Thedas, “We could always travel.”

“Ah, yes, so that we do not miss the Blight, no?” obviously teasing, the assassin nestled in close with a kiss that stopped mid-way for a yawn. “There are many options then, _amora_.”

“That’s why I was asking what you wanted to do. Something else to think about, something to plan for, something else to occupy the mind other than, will Bhelen live up to his agreements?” Growling as he voiced his frustrations, “Will the elves find any others to help us, and why do mages live in towers or cast fireball spells in a frelling library?!? Or why can’t I figure out why you always smell so good.”

“Which of those would you like answers to? I can answer all of those,” Zevran said very matter of factly. “Bhelen will live up to it or there would be full blown civil war amongst the dwarves. Those who support him not supporting us would be crushed quickly due to the fact that supplies from the surface are a lifeline, they would have no power or prestige if they had no way to sell their metals and goods and lyrium. Elven scouts cover what our merry group covers in two or three days in one, and the Dalish have a coded form of direction pointing that they leave for the very purpose of being easily found by other clans. Mages live in towers, as they are easy to contain, and purge, the library had enough fire protection runes that one would half expect pages to merely regenerate if mangled by a sloppy hand if they were put in a fire. And I smell good because you find me attractive. To someone like Wynne I might smell like rancid pond water. Which is good, as if she found me attractive I think I might vomit. It is far more preferable that you do, as the feeling is mutual.” The stream of words halted - but only for a moment. “Any other questions that plague you that you require solved?”

“Now I really need something else to think about or tomorrow is going to be a very boring walk to Denerim in the continuation of this endless march across Ferelden.”

“Hmn, that _is_ a problem,” agreeable and reasonable as usual. “I might have a solution, something to think about or to distract.”

Ferox was about to ask but then there were hands under his shirt, rubbing his chest slowly and Zevran was making a strange purring noise in the back of his throat, face pressed tightly to Ferox’s neck. It was distracting, certainly. It was also a new puzzle - just how did the elf do that? But he didn’t know what to do with the situation, drawing a blank, and the assassin’s hands were nowhere near the swelling that was currently growing. 

Answering the purr with a soft growl, “Zevran - what may I do for you?”

The faintly sweat-stained shirt from the day before was tugged up. But very slowly. “Is it too soon for me to ask to use my mouth on you?”

“I would venture a guess you are not talking about on my mouth,” not sure if he was hiding his uncertainty, hoping that least his interest might come through, not wanting to reject, but still extremely nervous.

Palms pressed to his shoulders, then gradually slid down, “I will start up here, the goal, it is down here-” pausing at Ferox’s waistband. “But I will stop the moment you ask me to, _amora,_ ” the hands moving back up quickly.

Licking his lips, Ferox sought to ignore the ache in his groin that wished for nothing more than that he give in. Closing his eyes he made himself think, to the best of his abilities, Zevran was still making that odd purring noise, it affected his speech oddly. The hot burr rolled around in the cavern of the mouth Ferox wasn’t certain he had fully explored yet, and found daily that he just wanted to make sure he had. 

Swallowing the easy answer, ‘no’, as it was an old one and unwanted, “As interesting as that sounds I’d...be more interested in learning how you do that.”

A partial answer but one he hoped got his point across. 

Zevran leaned up to tug off his shirt, “By all means, _amora._ Satisfy your curiosity.”

Spreading hands over the lean and muscular chest, Ferox ducked his face to listen to the purring directly. Initially at least. But the sound came from the chest and not just the throat, a sound that thrummed against his ear then his lips as he touched skin, the air vibrating steadily. It was full of stops and starts, managing to reach Zevran’s breastbone but the oddness at nipples stopped him in full, frowning in the dark, wishing the lantern was still lit. Thumbing them for a moment he realized that metal had been embedded in delicate flesh and quickly withdrew his hand, worried he had caused pain.

Hands smoothed over Ferox’s shoulders, “Is something amiss, _amora_?”

“Why would you, what, metal - metal in your -”

“Piercings? I put them there as I find them aesthetically pleasing, and the stimulation is no less pleasant. Why?” 

“That had to of hurt,” silently supplying the ‘horribly’. “So I’ll just take your word for it. 

“Hmn...no, it was not so bad. More than a tattoo but it also ends faster. The trade-offs were worth it, as are the other piercings I have.”

“ _Other_ piercings?” suddenly completely out of his depth once more.

He felt Zevran shrug, “Five on the underside of my shaft so that sex is of greater pleasure for my partner, one in the tip for my own increased enjoyment. It is neither common nor uncommon. Many have more piercings, many have less. The same as my tattoos. It is all a matter of preference.”

Wariness and curiosity warred. No one would willingly put needles in their body just for pleasure. It had to have been done to him and the intervening years must have given the assassin time to get used to them and fabricate that little fiction. Or maybe not. Ferox couldn’t say, and he wouldn’t know because he wouldn’t ask. 

An amused sound, the elf sat up, dislodging Ferox but keeping a tight hold on him, “Such a frown I can envision on your handsome face, _corizon._ No reason to keep it just to yourself, hmn?”

Flint and steel struck several times, a spark took the fat soaked wick, illuminating the familiar back and shoulders. The elf made a satisfied noise, scooting around on the bedrolls to tug off socks, then leggings, folding them and setting them aside, reduced to just his smalls. Languidly stretching while moving the lantern, Zevran set it where it would give them the best light. He had known it for a long time, but _seeing_ Zevran suddenly like that was something of a shock. Ferox had refrained from allowing himself to look at all except in the most general terms - limbs, eyes, nose, ears, mouth, jaw, neck, shoulders - but now it was like a hammer’s blow. Scars and tattoos only made a very wide chested, and yet improbably lean body, even more beautiful. Like a snowcat or the rare cougar while in summer and autumn coats, the markings and tawny gold only exaggerated the simple motion of breathing. Or like the very rare tigers that ranged the borders between the Korcari Wilds, the Frostbacks and the Uncharted Territories with pelts that ranged from snow white with long mottled black stripes or to deep red-umber with tan stomachs, their faces and bodies bearing black markings as well. If he could, Ferox would make a cloak of those pelts as well as continue to make the furred blankets for the elf to settle in nightly, protecting his less cold-resistant body.

Clearing his throat, Ferox felt large and bumbling, not just inexperienced, but graceless by comparison. “I didn’t know you had tattoos on your legs.”

Zevran took Ferox’s face in his hands, the gesture familiar, but had only come when they were laying down, not sitting up. Sun gold eyes skipped over his face, studying him thoroughly before saying with just the mildest hint of coaxing, “Ferox, there is no need to fear - not me, not yourself. Not this. I am going nowhere, stop when you wish to, take as much time as you desire. You are incapable of disappointing me, as I am here because I desire your presence and touch.” 

Tilting his head, a kiss was deposited on a sinewy wrist, an interesting circular tattoo over the vein. Taking Zevran’s word for it as it was all he could do, Ferox started over with what was nearest. Knuckles jutted from hands, wear and tear from countless fights on them, but they were only slightly reddened, the frequent applications of salves during a massage, and apparently whenever possible, having protected and soothed them, they were a fighter’s hands, there was no mistaking it. Following the line of bone, the tendons ropey and flat, packed tightly, displaying strength with a flex, every muscle standing in relief as they were explored. Forearms widened and were hard, though the skin was velvety, a great deal of the power originating there, fueling the assassin’s strikes during a fight, or the strength to tug and pull and smooth sore muscles into a semblance of submission, with the fine tuned motor-control there. Biceps were thinner oddly, but still much larger than Ferox would have suspected from the elven servants and the bare armed Dalish men he had seen. It was in the meat of the shoulders that some of the real strength came from, or was it the back, layered as it was with coiled tissues, compact and extremely dense? Skin and muscle hung from bones that were slim but wide-set, worn comfortably as any fine and specially made garment. 

Gold hoops lay close and tight around ruddy brown nipples, not much different than ones he had seen in the ears of others. Checking there quickly, a thumb and forefinger touching a lobe, faint dents, three in each lobe, and upon closer inspection, several up higher near the sculpted tips. At the exploratory touch sliding down the cartilage, they did something startling - they twitched, the entire shell rotating forward to keep contact with the touch. It only reinforced the image of a feline, or a very sleek mabari without the narrow loin. Or the face so ugly that it became interesting.

Repeating the motion, “I’ve never seen anything like that. Would you do that again? Do other elves move their ears? ”

“Some do,” head tilted, a hand guiding Ferox’s fingers up so the tip could curl in a whispered embrace. “Those who do are wary of sharing it. _Shemlen_ obsession with our ears has led to pain in frequent enough cases. The only time I cursed and wanted to swear from discomfort of a physical modification I have done to my body, were the piercings up near the tips. I would take my nose being done a thousand times, my cock twice that, before I would sit still for twelve holes punched through all at once in my ears. Or the crossbar, that one...pure foolishness. Besides it never looks good on an elf, and it forces our ears to be stiff.” It was a contented purr, “But when care is taken to not purposely inflict damage, I find the touch of another very...welcome.”

“Why did you take the piercings out?” unable to stop himself from slowly stroking and rubbing the flexible flesh as it twitched and swiveled and curled while Zevran made low noises.

“I did not wish anyone to rip them from my ears as loot after killing me,” absentminded. “With how finicky Fereldens are, I found it unlikely anyone would touch those in my nipples and penis. And I gave my old ones from my belly button, tongue, eyebrow, ears and nose to...to those who had taken me in before. Superstitious lot.”

Checking to make sure it was alright, he leaned in to nuzzle at Zevran’s face, kissing him slowly and worked his way to an ear. It almost cupped his lips with invitation, and he gave it an experimental lick. Bronze hands grabbed Ferox’s knees a growl and groan issuing. He took that as a good sign, so continued his inspection, moving from one to the other, losing track of time.

“Ferox,” a hint of warning, “I do not...I do not mean to be hasty but that is...driving me just faintly, faintly mind you, up the wall.” There was a shudder head moving away from Ferox’s face to lean forward, panting against his chest. 

Pointing out, “This is a tent - hard to do, even for you.”

The Crow chuckled, “True, but I am...unaccustomed...to that much attention there. Not even another elf, yes? It is...”

Ferox took on a rural drawl, “Is it larger tha’ tha universe? Is it smaller tha’ah mouse? Is it ah velvet painting of Arland done in’the last three days? Is it two whyte horses one named Tookus tha other not? A shrubbery perhaps?” He was prepared to offer more alternatives.

“It is a bit much to take,” more laughter, lips touching Ferox’s throat. “The stimulation is just slightly...overwhelming, hmn? If you wish to continue there, allow them a few moments to rest.” Tongue slid into Ferox’s mouth, lips somehow mumbling, “It is not bad, just too much focus at once.”

Rumbling after the twining and licking of mouths had stopped, “As you wish.” 

Gingerly Ferox continued elsewhere, finding the hollow of the throat, the bobbing apple at windpipe when licked firmly gained the rushing air of a moan. Mapping each patch of skin, going slow, careful to make sure no hurt was incurred, while Zevran lay back, watching him or eyes closed when a particularly sensitive place was found. The hoop in a nipple was touched then gradually tested and tasted. There was no thick layer of hair over chest or abdomen, but as he went farther down, downy copper fuzz formed an expanding trail that sank below the waist of undergarments. Halting there, the large ridge of erection tucked to the side was...also startling. Ferox didn’t wish to compare what he had seen before, but couldn’t really help it considering that what wasn’t out in the open yet was still a great deal _more_ than what he had been once familiar with. 

“Ferox, you do not have to do that,” honeyed skin and abdominal muscle flexed beneath Ferox’s hands.

“Is that a ‘Please stop’? Or a ‘You don’t have to’, way out?”

“A way out,” succinct. “No more than you are willing, _amora_. You need not rush on my account. You can stop at any point and that will be enough - no pressure, no harm, no fear, no anger, Ferox.”

“I appreciate my scout’s advice, but I should like to see the lay of the land myself, as he has permitted it.”

Full lips quirked, hands cupping, but not pulling, Ferox’s head. “I am yours.”

Tugging the linen away, Zevran raised his hips to assist, but made no other moves other than to stroke Ferox’s crown lightly in an easy rhythm, giving reassurance. From anyone else it would be off-putting, as Ferox wasn’t the one in the vulnerable state. With the confining linen gone, the thickness and length were allowed freedom, curving rather than straight. At the base, the hair had darkened to a deeper copper, something between that darker metal and the spun gold of the elf’s shoulder length locks. 

Reining in the statement that almost broke free about commonly held beliefs about male elven anatomy versus what he was currently faced with, Ferox instead took a few more moments. He had already spoken poorly that evening and had no wish to repeat it, _especially_ not about something so intimate. The lists of things he could say that came to mind weren’t very good. Ferox really had no idea what to say, just that he had to be careful.

Grasping the hard heat firmly, thumb finding the strange piercings on the underside, “I don’t see why you felt the need to do anything to yourself to ensure satisfaction.”

An arm folded under his head to prop up and watch him, “It is not the size that matters, it is the way it is used. But I have always strove to be nothing if not a polite lover, _amora._ The more effort I put forth, the greater my reward, as there is much to enjoy in giving.” A shrug of shoulder, “It is like the tattoos and piercings - I have seen many kinds. An ‘impressive’ size is not always all that impressive. But none of that matters, only that you and I are here, that is what I need for satisfaction.”

It sounded reasonable, just like anything else Zevran ever said to him. Part of him wanted to agree outright, but he didn’t know firsthand. Yes, he liked giving; had given gifts to his companions and seeing them happy had meant something. But the way the elf’s eyes had lit up, after the initial shock and almost-hostility had worn off, the picking it apart, the never having had a gift, the way he had been so off balance... Yet the gratitude that Ferox had listened to and had _remembered_ an offhand comment... Nothing was ever asked for, never demanded. The only thing asked for was to be allowed to give, as though Zevran didn’t know how to receive. Which, Ferox suddenly realized, might actually be true. Even when the assassin had forced an issue, touched uninvited, that had not been for the elf’s pleasure or desire at all. It was all giving, no asking. Not even a massage of shoulders, or a wound stitched, or warmth shared. He couldn’t think much about the forced touch, but he could acknowledge in the confines of his own mind that Zevran had not taken any joy in that act, that much had been obvious. 

Squeezing and giving Zevran’s manhood a long stroke, even in this there was giving. Outs offered, safety promised, calmness seeping from every pore, allowing Ferox to explore and sate his curiosity wherever it took him, trust too. In his hand there was a flex against the grip, the pulse of blood rushing beneath Ferox’s fingertips beckoned. Velvet skin slipped up and down the shaft easily with each stroke, the dusky with blood head was swollen, another ring passing through the eye out the underside of the tip. Another flex and a pearl leaked out, pale cream against the dark plushness making the gold gleam. Without thinking, Ferox licked the evidence of deep arousal away, rumbling at the taste. Paying special attention, ignoring in some ways his own curiosity and its desire to be sated, he listened and watched for Zevran’s sounds of pleasure. As much as Ferox wished to focus on finding and learning everything, of controlling what he could, he gave this time. Working his tongue over the thick veins that pulsed each time Zevran twitched, Ferox did what he could, swallowing down as much as he could take. 

A guiding hand came, nimble digit running around the crown, then dragging it down the underside and back up, showing instead. “ _Amora_ , here, here is...good...and here.”

Following the instructions, Ferox listened to the sighs and groans, watched the way muscles tensed in a line up a black streaked golden side. Firmly caressing a muscular thigh, he got more comfortable, one of Zevran’s legs instantly bent at the knee, cradling him and providing support for the arm that was busy holding the heavy erection upright. Continuing to stroke Zevran, touching everywhere he could reach, Ferox glided his tongue in a meaningless pattern, held captive by the look of concentration on elven features.

“ _Amora,_ ” it was hoarse. “Please,” a thick swallow while Ferox didn’t pause. The hand that had been resting on Ferox’s head left, flailing towards the pack, “Please, Ferox, just...”

Stopping at the note of desperation, worried, but he had sounded like he was enjoying it, confused, Ferox stilled, “Yes?”

“Cream, just...I am sorry, but please,” fingers grasped futilely at was just out of reach. 

Ferox got up enough to dig in the Crow’s pack, grabbing the first one he could find and turned back, uncorking it. “What do you need?”

Lids slammed closed, a deeply drawn breath, “Fingers and what you were doing.”

Almost ready to take some out, “Wait, is this one poison?”

At that, a deep laugh, holding out a hand to take the jar and check with a quick sniff, “No. But that would have been entertaining.”

Ferox didn’t think so, “I’d rather not try to find the humour in that.”

Zevran shook his head, leaning to sit half-up, taking and giving a long kiss. “Vials are poison, jars are salves and poultices. Usually.” Forehead pressed to Ferox’s jaw, hot breath coasting over his neck, “I only wished to gain another of those kisses. Checking for poison was a good excuse.” 

Giving the Antivan a firm push to lay back down, Ferox gathered a goodly amount of the salve, slowly coating the ring of muscles that relaxed immediately at his touch. Taking great care, he began to work a single finger in as Zevran let out a soft hiss, head thumping on their rolled up cloaks several times. Inside was soft and tight, the muscles rhythmically grasping the long middle digit. He wasn’t sure that he was ready for everything, though the temptation and desire was there.

Zevran held up two fingers, “Two, two, any other time you desire, do as you will, but please...” Quicker than he would normally think was wise, at least with Rory, he added a second digit, gaining a clench, arched back and another hiss, “ _Amora_!”

Waiting until he was certain that that wasn’t a displeased sound and that it really was what Zevran wanted, Ferox made himself comfortable once more, returning to giving rather than exploring, though they were nearly the same thing. It was a fine distinction. The sounds the elf made were wilder with each passing moment, the time of clearly pent up want and craved connection adding to what small skills Ferox had. There was a warning, a hand on his face, urging him away as that almost audible rushing pulse began. Allowing his lips to leave the head as it began to violently erupt, instead focusing on Zevran’s broad shaft, while his fingers continued their work, a groan that ended in a rolling growl surging in time with the upwelling of seed. 

Withdrawing slowly, carefully, as Zevran shuddered while scrubbing a hand over his face, Ferox licked his lips. “Zevran - I would have swallowed, I’m not that inexperienced and I’ve already tasted you.”

The Crow moaned stretching and propping up on both elbows, “And that always is something I find enticingly pleasant. However I was...quite pent up. The velocity would not have been comfortable in all likelihood.” A hand came out to cup Ferox’s head and tug him close enough to kiss again. “I did not wish to risk it being unpleasant for you, _amora_ , or being presumptuous again.”

Growling, Ferox sought another kiss, before taking a path down to the pale puddle and licking it away, then gave the same treatment to the still very present erection, pleased at Zevran’s hungry voice muttering in Antivan what definitely didn’t sound like insults. Ferox removed and folded his own shirt, familiar, comfortable with that much, easily putting the garment near to hand, but also putting it away. The leggings were more difficult, normally Zevran was not watching, busy looking for whatever was needed. But he wouldn’t reward the openness and giving with shutting the assassin out. That too was managed, and set aside carefully. 

“Ferox,” palm landing on his knee, squeezing it once. “May I give you some of the same relief and joy you have given me?”

There was no plan in place, hadn’t been since Zevran had come back to the tent, so his words were chosen as carefully as he could make them be, “I don’t want you to _have to_. That’s not right...I mean, I don’t want you to have to because you believe that there is some debt you think you owe, or repayment or...no choice. I am happy where we are, not a tent, but you know what I mean. I’m happy with this now and I don’t want to ruin anything and I don’t want ME to ruin it either because I can’t, won’t do something you want...or hesitate to think about it for a minute. And the more I think about this, the more I need air.” Even though he had started slow and steady, the last sentence stumbled and fell all over itself in an effort to escape his mouth.

Zevran touched Ferox’s chin, stilling the motion, the usual firmness in place, mixed with that always dose of gentleness. “Ferox, whatever pace you are remotely comfortable with is the pace we will go, I can and will match my steps to yours. This is not you give, I give, like a child’s game of tit-for-tat. There is nothing to prove to me or to yourself, as forcing something that you are not ready for at this point will only lead to discomfort. But if you wish air, pants might be necessary, and it would be a shame, as I was enjoying the view, just so you know.”

A breath to steady himself, he tilted his head slightly, “To start, I like this,” Ferox leaned in to kiss Zevran, who was receptive and returned it with the same steadiness he always displayed. Holding the elf’s hand for a moment, Ferox pressed it flat to his chest. Breaking the kiss, “I like when you touch me as well. Beyond this we haven’t gone, so starting with this is familiar...good.”

With a firm tug, he was pulled back down so they were face to face as they often were for that which usually came before sleep. “Then this is certainly where we can start, _amora_.” 

Amongst the many, many things Ferox didn’t understand, or couldn’t even begin to guess at, was why Zevran always tasted like sunlight. Even with the flux of food or sleep it was still at its core, the same. That alone made the need for air subside, because, like in the Deep Roads, he was the air and the light. A leg slowly tangled with his, Ferox noticed that, felt it, felt the bare skin against his own, the foot curling around his calf by tucking the arch over the widest part of the muscle, the light bump of a knee against his, the hand at his hip moving them gradually closer together. Moist hardness pressed near his aching need that he had only occasionally, almost furtively satisfied during the Crow’s morning watch, and only of late, begun sometime between the now and leaving the Deep Roads. Almost always with the thought of sunlight in his mouth, that brief press once, a whispered ‘ _amora_ ’ were the last things to send him over. More recently he had thought of other things, of a strong finger, but instead of what had happened, it was a jumble of everything, until he could no longer think and relief spilled out.

Once there, hands roved, pulling Ferox’s braid fully undone, a very pleased purr issuing from a bronze throat that was echoed, and Ferox pushed an arm beneath Zevran, drawing him tighter. Several purposeful rockings of hips and he had to tear his mouth away, needing to hear those noises the elf had made earlier, while hoping for another murmured endearment. Pushing soft hair away from an ear, a lobe was taken between teeth, pressing lightly until he heard a hitch in breathing, fingers tightening in his hair, flexing. A hand snaked down Ferox’s side, rubbing and grasping as his tongue slithered over the Crow’s ear.

“ _Amora,_ ” groaned in the light of the lantern, a mass of blond hair and brown skin all Ferox could see through his hooded eyes, the assassin’s hand working between them. “ _Amora_ , I need to touch you, to feel you like this,” the grasp sure around Ferox’s length, holding it together with his own. 

Shuddering at the direct contact, the intent was there, undeniable. So was the want. Even as hotly as it burned, the sun was steady in his arms, and Ferox only sought out the mouth that said things that frightened and thrilled him. In that instant he probably would have done anything asked, but nothing more than the proposed stroking happened, to go with the more familiar things. Rumbling as Zevran pleasured them both, Ferox wanted more, but didn’t know how to ask for it, or how to think, or how to cope with more. Focusing on the slick tongue and the way the hand felt holding them together, Ferox was surprised when Zevran tore his mouth away, the earlier heard low moan that ended in a growl came as viscous, hot fluid poured over the massaging hand and his own cock. There was something about the way it sounded, and dazedly he realized just how much the Antivan had been muffling and holding himself back.

The thought that just that had sent Zevran over made Ferox feel slightly crazed. For whatever reason that vibrant creature wanted him, had found that strong of a release with _him._ When hands had traveled and roamed, pressing him back, mouth following a straight path, he didn’t think to protest or even want to. Long tongue gathered and licked away the spilled seed, lips pressing to his throbbing desire, having held himself in check, too busy experiencing to fully let go, then he was being devoured in a long swallow, a nose pressed into his pubic hair, a low noise sending steady vibrations along his length before withdrawing to lick and swirl before sinking down again. If he died there, it would be happy, as he was in a blast of sunlight, consuming him and burning without pain.


	2. Chapter 2

There had been a peculiar bounce in his step all day, not deterred by the limited sleep, or the peculiarity of awakening tangled and nude, his spine not completely straight. Horse had slept at the foot of the tent, his large back turned, having given privacy but was clearly not going to leave. It was his tent too. But during the day he had barely heard the usual banter, just some laughter, and the warm burn of Zevran’s whiskey and honey voice. Ferox hadn’t even been able to listen to the words, or else he would have called a halt. Which he had to do eventually anyway, everyone was tired, and they were all due for a rest besides. They had pushed so far, so much, that while they planned on heading to the Brecelian Forest, a pit-stop or two would be necessary.

Making the rounds after camp had been made, Leliana’s comment about ‘Your Zevran’ had taken him aback, surprising him. They had been careful, so he thought, or Zevran had at least, always setting up his own tent, no matter that his gear was always in Ferox’s, deposited and slipped in when no one would notice. And by the time everyone was waking up, Ferox and Zevran usually had already broken down their tents to stow in Bodhan’s cart. Not that he minded Leliana’s comment though, it was just odd. Ferox himself tended towards the discreet, a polite secret that everyone knew but didn’t speak about. The only thing his parents had ever said about he and Rory was that ‘discretion was the better part of valor’, then telling him that they just wanted him to be content with his life, whatever path it took.

No one else said anything, but that stood to reason - a bard would be as observant, or nearly so, possibly even more so, as an assassin. Wynne was the real shock. Immediately she launched into a lecture on duty, as though he hadn’t been raised up and suckled at the teat of Duty and Honour his whole life. Then the comment that Zevran had only one thing on his mind and saying he acted like he was working in a brothel. And that their racket had prevented anyone from sleeping. That was crossing the line. Actually, all of it was. He had had to clamp down on the snarl, had had to summon up the mask of genteel and say that it was just fun, and that he would not forget his duty as a Warden.

After that he was in a black mood, ate his dinner silently, even as Zevran finally sat down beside him with his own bowl, the solid mabari providing them both with a backrest.

A mug of some herbal blend the assassin was always finding one way or another, was passed to him, which Ferox accepted, focusing on his food. The faint smell of blood from Zevran’s semi-nightly hunting forays to make sure the party had meat, was a soft cloying undercurrent to the leather, sweat, sunshine and spices as he tucked into his food, demolishing the first bowl by the time Ferox finished his. As usual, Ferox got up to grab them both seconds, letting the assassin rest for a few more minutes.

“I gather that your nightly rounds did not go well, my Warden?”

“Not right now,” mumbling around a chunk of scavenged tuber.

Zevran grunted, scanning the party inconspicuously, “So, a certain wise woman said something nasty that has stolen the light from your lovely eyes. My going rate is very low, but only for you.”

Pursing his lips, Ferox stirred the thick stew several times, “I thought of that, but we need a healer.”

“...Ferox, it was said in jest.”

It took him a moment to process, as _he_ hadn’t been joking. “Oh.”

“What was said that was so offensive?” a light brush over the back of Ferox’s hand was compelling enough to make him seriously consider telling the Crow.

Well there was no way he would say it all. Divulging some would be fine. “I’m apparently neglecting my duty.”

“Hmn, the woman who waltzes away from the Tower when they need her most has the ability to talk ‘duty’ to the one who is tramping across hither and yon because someone has to do it? Typical,” a hand was waved dismissively while indicating everything at once.

“It was irritating, yes. But I can laugh that one off.”

Appraising gold eyes were on him, Ferox could feel their weight. He was sure little ever escaped their notice, and if anything ever did, reactions and wit were sufficiently fast to stoop and strike down that which was overlooked. Zevran wasn’t much of a Crow, more like some swift hawk, eagle, or other majestically sleek and strong bird. Belatedly he wondered just how well the elf could hear - Wynne hadn’t been particularly quiet.

“Ah. Then that leaves the other part of her statement.” A chunk of trail bread was torn off and chewed thoughtfully for a few seconds, “I was born in a brothel, I grew up in one. I have spent a great deal of time in brothels, frankly probably more time than anywhere else. Did you know that bordellos, whorehouses, cat-houses, whatever word you choose to use, have some of the most comfortable beds anywhere? Much better than an inn. Just bring your own linens if you are not a regular.”

“I’ll take it under advisement should we travel anywhere where there actually is one.”

Another long drink was taken and as the cup was set down in the hollow made by partially crossed legs, “It is good that her picking will cease. It was tiresome as she sought to disassemble me and reassemble me like a puzzle and make me fit within her notions and categories. This way she has dismissed me as not worth her time. But, brothels, as work? It is not so bad. I have been assigned to several.”

Coughing as he had forgotten to swallow his tea _before_ breathing, “‘Assigned’?”

“Assigned, between contracts, my Warden. Crows still have to earn coin for the Guild even when not out killing people. In fact our jobs tend to be very diverse. Protection, bodyguard, espionage, chef, one Crow I was acquainted with was hired to become someone’s husband for ten years, have a family and such, the contract was purchased by the woman’s father. I suppose he wished to ensure that his daughter made some fat little babies and had a man that, until the contract was finished, would be completely faithful and devoted to her and any offspring that resulted,” another shrug. “The perfect spouse. Being something like that, it requires flexibility. Some of us are lucky enough to be naturally able to slip into our roles, be it sexual or otherwise, to aid our work, but most...? They have to be trained in it.”

“You said you never took your clothes off professionally if I recall,” keeping his voice calm and level.

“Because I was not a _whore_. I was a _Crow_ , contracted to fill a position. A whore is a whore when they go into that job and if or when they change professions they are no longer a whore, while a Crow is always a Crow. No matter the role they are in.” Zevran’s touch was light, more open than usual, resting on Ferox’s knee, and there was uncertainty in the expression turned his way, “Does...my varied past...bother you?”

Quietly, “Should it?” It was such a fine line distinction, between whore or Crow in that description. Unable, unwilling to dissect the difference here, now surrounded by the entire company, it was put into the growing stack of things to think about later.

“For some, yes, it would. Used goods like myself tend to not be very popular unless they are antiques or to be discarded once whatever use they have is finished,” levity was reached for along with typical self-depreciation. “I am not quite so old that I qualify as the former.”

“Some people are stupid. I try not be amongst those who forget that we all have a past.”

The relief was palpable though, the hand slipping away as he turned attention back to his meal, “Thank you.”

Gaining the tent after his watch, Ferox found Zevran curled up as usual, but the braids that frequently held the hair from his face were undone. A lid popped open, a smile on the handsome face spread, and the hound was given a tap, the usual signal for him to scoot to the nighttime spot at the foot of the bedrolls. He was too bright, nearly blinding. Ferox couldn’t measure up to that. Surely there had been those much better than what paltry offerings Ferox had to give, other beautiful people that the handsome, personable Crow could easily find who would appreciate his gifts...

Half of him wanted to take the next watch, to turn around and remove himself from the dark shadow he caused in the sun’s presence. However that would be turning away and that turn would be rejecting Zevran, rejecting who he really was - not the suppositions that Wynne threw at him, or Leliana teased him about, or any one of them had said. Things even Ferox himself had thought in the beginning...surface, gloss, gilt...things that had nothing, or very little, to do with the man who shone underneath. Swallowing the reservations down, Ferox tied the flaps closed firmly and set aside boots and shirt the way Zevran had apparently as the day’s shirt was folded nearby. Gingerly he climbed under the blankets assailed by doubts as to why Zevran would wish to spend time with someone that couldn’t merely hand over what little was asked for.

As soon as he was under the blankets, “What can I do for you?”

A puzzled look swept the elf’s face, “‘Do for’ me? I am content, _amora_.”

Unwilling to reject and abandon Zevran, to take away what had already been given, what he would like to continue to give, Ferox risked being forsaken. “Good. Tell me of this contentment.”

Flat on his back, wishing vainly for a mattress, Ferox slid an arm under to pillow Zevran’s head. Holding his uncertainty and anxiety that he was not enough on a short leash, he wanted to lay in the warmth of the sun, to hear words washing over him as they had in the Deep Roads, to be reassured, safe, and wanted by the one beside him. In some ways, this too, was survival.

The elf stretched then made himself comfortable, arm over Ferox’s waist, head on a shoulder, “There were miles walked, but no skirmishes fought. I took a buck almost as soon as I set out to hunt this evening, which is busy being dried into jerky - Bodhan has a crate with the haunches layered in the fats I seem to always be collecting, as well. Our keen nosed and most loyal friend dug up a good portion of root vegetables, and many herbs and such have been found today. We will eat well and it will not be _too_ bland. What I would give to find some bandits or raid a pantry with spices, I do not know, but it would be much. However that is just wishing for more when there is plenty, hmn?” Zevran’s hand was lazily stroking Ferox’s chest, occasionally wandering up to the shoulder and caressing the day’s growth of beard he hadn’t scraped off yet, a faint scratchy sound to it. “You appeared to be truly relaxed and in a good mood. It was the first time I had seen it, and allow me to inform you - it looked quite fine indeed. The statements of an old woman and my own past did not make you set me aside... With you, I belong. With you, I am safe. With you, I am accepted. How can I not be content, _amora_? These are...good things in my life.”

When put like that, it was hard to deny that yes, those were good things. Even the little ones like having extra mint or berries to dry for tea. It had been a very good day when looked at in that light, other than the conversation with Wynne. If ‘conversation’ could be considered an applicable description. Feeling some of the tension begin to flow away, Ferox pressed his palm along the firm contour of Zevran’s back, keeping him close. Still, Ferox found himself comparing what he was, wondering just how he measured up against all those others. With his limited experience in, well, basically _everything_ , he must still be inadequate.

In the middle of the night Ferox woke, knowing this time what had brought him there. Lips were nipping lightly at his chest and shoulder, a familiar hand brushing over his face, thumb rubbing his temple. Rubbing the heel of his palm in an eye-socket until he was more aware, his arm tightened around the man beside him, the kisses not stopping but remaining a constant and slow flow, tugging him towards wakefulness.

Vague unease, a recollection of something nightmarish in his mind whilst sleeping, “Wha-?”

“A bad dream, _amora._ ” The assassin propped up on an elbow, leaning over to press his face to Ferox’s forehead, inhaling and exhaling very slowly. “Are you alright?”

“Do darkspawn sleep? They are alive, that much is certain. They move during the day, they are sung to...called across Ferelden at night, so they must move then too.” Wrapping his arms tighter around him, Ferox held on as he spoke, “I’ve never observed supplies like bedrolls or food. Ogres, now I know the answer to that question - saw one eating the soldiers at Ostagar. That one cracked my skull open...he seemed a little angry to have his dinner interrupted. So, I suppose I may have deserved it.”

A hand went to his skull at that, easing through the hair that was held back, searching for the seam, “There is what the Chantry says about the darkspawn, but I have always been a greater fan of viewing such simple answers as allegory.” Fingertips slipped along the crack, the dent all that remained, “Perhaps when they move by night they are asleep though? There is a state between waking and dreaming, some scholars make studies of it in Rivain, very dry reading, or so I am told, as I find the mind and its states endlessly fascinating, but to return to the information - they have found that people are very open to suggestion at these times.”

Ferox withheld a snort, as it seemed that most things interested the Crow on one level or another, picking up facts and knowledge the way berry pickers would fill their baskets.

“It has been a long time since I last read on it, but there is a book of accounts of those who have been controlled by blood mages. They said it was like a dream, that reality was warped, dream-logic ruling them.” Musing, “In the Trenches you thrashed and spoke far more than usual, most nights there is a bit of murmuring, mostly about small things - someone’s bread rolls being burnt, another about having to check your gear, why the sun was so bright, most of it making little sense. But in the Trenches it was...different. As though if your body was not paralyzed with sleep, you would be up on your feet, ready to march, or at least stagger. Yet, time cycles, day or night, they do not matter below ground, it then poses the question - what if they are in some state between awake and sleep? Caught in some web that has twisted them to monstrosities? At least the original ones, the Magisters who supposedly blackened the Golden City, who then gave rise to more of their kind? Spreading like bad blood magic?”

“Combined with something Alistair said on the first night we actually slept, that explains the reason... Supposedly, and this is only verified with a tiny sample group of two, mind you, Wardens made during the Blight have stronger dreams. Is it because of the blood used, from ones who have actually heard the song? Because it had to be fresh. Wardens made before the Blight, wouldn’t have had that factor.”

Zevran made a sound of curiosity, “Darkspawn blood? Filthy stuff, which you were quite adamant about making sure all of us know not to it get near our mouths or eyes or wounds and to flush the above with very strong stuff on the offchance. Which, after seeing Ruck, well, I could see why first hand it would be unwise. But if we were to have only a small amount, would that make us Wardens?”

“No, the mages prepared the concoction, there must be something else to make it...safe enough to consume...well ‘safe’ is relative. Alistair also said that old Wardens heard the song loudly too and that to satisfy this Calling they went to the Deep Roads to die,” unable to suppress the shudder at being trapped underground. “But old Wardens wouldn’t have been created with blood from ones that heard the song, it was before. That part hurts my head.”

Zevran rolled onto his back, arms crossing by the way they shifted, his head remaining pillowed, and part of his shoulder as well, on Ferox. “Hmn... Antivan Wardens are almost always pulled from four types of people. The Dalish clans, the nomads who people the steppes with their horses and such, the mercenaries of the Free Blades, and Crows. And those four groups - they travel. The general populace are not fighters. Warriors or those with any real skills at defending and attacking come from those groups.”

“What? No mages?” surprised.

“Mages? Not as such, no. Shaman, Keepers, ah...the apostates I suppose the Chantry would call them, if they dared to say that beyond closed doors in Antiva. All of them are healers, in one form or another, often with connections to blood magic,” a hand was waved. “Or spirit magic. My knowledge beyond a few of them is limited. But they are a protected class, so long as they do not enter politics and only dispense healing, the apostates of Antiva City are usually a master and an apprentice. They can only charge what the patient can afford. They provide other services as well, mind healers to some degree, they also are artists of the flesh - like my tattoos. The fact that they tend to use blood magic, and subtly at that, likely makes them better candidates.” A thoughtful pause, “ _If_ blood magic is connected to that. The shaman I knew, who settled down and set up shop there, she frequently would say to those who have nightmares, particularly of demons, ‘I do not fight them, I sit down and tell them to have some tea, but ask for nothing and make no deals, just tell them to pass the cookies.’ Apparently she views, and was taught, that the Circle style of fighting demons actually wears one down, causing a mage to be _easier_ to become an abomination. When one is not well rested, one makes sloppy mistakes. If Sa’id were alive and here, he would likely have a unique take on it as he made no bones about being a maleficar... And using it to control his patients.”

Like the large stone and metal gears that were strangely quiet even as they sang in the dwarven city, Ferox could almost hear the cogs turning in the Crow’s mind as he thought. What was said was enough to make his temples throb, a sick feeling in his stomach, but at least he would have several weeks worth of thought for the tramping on the road. For a man who was a strangely devout Andrastian, Zevran easily spoke on forbidden and banned education that any Ferelden Templar would be willing to brand the elf as a heretic just for knowing, and would be willing to show him the Sword of Mercy.

Seeking some distraction from that, “Maleficarum operate openly in Antiva? But - the Chantry.”

“They do not operate as mages or maleficar or apostates,” it was absentminded, clearly still thinking things over and picking at the puzzles. “They are herbalists and they lay ink into flesh upon request or other adornments. That is where they make their livings. Some are poor, some are vastly rich. Some have waiting lists of years just to touch up faded ink. Others charge a handful of pennies or a day’s meal. They do not own businesses beyond the business of their shop, they own no more land than their residence and shop. They own no slaves, if they require servants, they hire them. _Pintores de la llona_ do not control others, that is how they remain separate and safe from the Chantry in Antiva. Remember, _amora_ , the Chantry’s hold on Antiva is...not what it is in other places. It is too far from Val Royeaux and too close to Minrathous. And it is a massive trade center. Goods from Par Vollen come through Rivain or Antiva before moving elsewhere. Truthfully I wonder sometimes if the only reason we pay lip service at all is because we do not feel like losing trade, rather than a fear of another March. Or in the hopes for another March if the Qu’nari decide to get vocal.” A grunt, muttering, “Ah, yes, that would make sense... Bah, if only I had access to the Library.”

In the beginning, the constant talking was annoying because it sounded like just needing noise, from all of them, but Zevran was the worst. The one-sided conversations frequently ventured into subjects he too had been thinking of, and engaging anyone on the topic would have been undesired, because that would have meant that he would have had to acknowledge that he actually cared. And that was something which was very dangerous, risky. Already aware that what was...who was cared for, could be easily taken away in the dead of the night, it was an exchange that Ferox had been unwilling to to engage in. ‘Where are we going?’, ‘What is for dinner?’, ‘You on that emissary?’ - all safe topics. The whys and what-fors, his daily thoughts on the road, that was too close. He would have had to admit the existence of others beyond them being part of the changing scenery.

Somewhere that had changed, at least in regards to Zevran. Was it the vulnerability shown in the Deep Roads? If this life was ever repeated, Ferox made a note to avoid that place next time, even while admitting that much had been accomplished. This easy communication, the sharing of his actual thoughts, must have come from there. Didn’t remember doing that beforehand, even Before-before, his thoughts and theories equally taken in and mirrored. Some trust must have been built when he wasn’t looking. That was as frightening as the rest of what Zevran seemed to want from him. If they both survived, this connection might be a good thing, but if the light were put out...one of those towers on the road would look very tempting.

Ferox found his hand lifted, palm kissed and Zevran gave a shake of an unseen blond head, then kissed Ferox’s mouth before re-situating, “Tomorrow is a new day, so the saying goes, ponderings can wait for the road. Shall we rest then?”

Inhaling deeply, Ferox rubbed his face to Zevran’s, asking for another taste of that light. “Yes.”

....

There had been a laugh one night when it was put forth that Wynne needed to be awakened on a regular basis, just for a sense of justice being done. Otherwise they were still discrete even though everyone knew and ribbed Zevran more than himself, but it was more open affection than he had received as far as he could ever recall. A hand brushing past his with fingers briefly tangling, fingers sliding when passing something to the other, a shoulder bumping into him, the grasp of a hand pushing his shoulder down, before booted toes tapped the back of his baldric, so that the assassin could use him as a launching pad. The last thing, of which the very recollection of sent Ferox’s heart pounding, when at the time it had just seemed natural, made him break out into a sweat. It was too easy to see how the slightest error could have caused harm, and that was not even mentioning, for all practical purposes, flying into the mouth of Flemeth. Even though the Crow had veritably rode her winding and snapping head to the ground, it still made Ferox faintly queasy.

But now they were heading into the Coastland Mountains for a place to winter, and on the word of a fallen noble family turned merchant, looking for a forgotten Warden stronghold, and Zevran was huddling against Ferox, clinging to the mug of hot water, sipping it. There was no care for the fact that this wasn’t discrete at all, it was unsubtle, but he had to admit, other than the cold, and Zevran’s constant shaking, it was comfortable. One handed he made sure that his cloak enfolded Zevran better as they sat beside the fire, checking to make sure that ears were covered by the furry flaps with a glance. The gear they tackled the winter with was better this time by far, particularly Zevran’s, who finally had enough to keep him protected, at least comparing what had once been brought.

“Braska! I always wondered what mountains would be like, now I know - and I swear, I will never willingly go to these blasted peaks again, _even if_ the Pillars are supposed to be milder!” it was said with a flick of a chattering smile at him, then a glance towards Wynne who was scowling.

Drawling, “And here I was considerin’ climbin’ all of the highest peaks all over Thedas. Puttin’ a Cousland banner at the top of each of them. Becomin’ a mountain man, telling tales of blizzards, of eatin’ raw frozen bear, of chewin’ my own leg off when it got caught in’a trap, and of tall trees that exploded when frozen. Go to town every spring and sell what had been trapped over the winter, then drink everythin’ up only to start all over again. Certain you wouldn’t join me?”

“Only if you keep me warm!”

Rumbling, “I’ll keep you more than just warm.” Ferox was tempted to add an endearment, but that was pushing his sensibilities, riling up Wynne or not.

Amber eyes lit up, and not solely for the game of making silliness and fun. “Oh, now that sounds like a promise.” Wynne made a noise, Leliana giggled, Alistair moaned, Oghren belched, Sten said nothing, and Morrigan snorted. The hound just wiggled closer to him and Zevran, butt wriggling. Zevran, for his part leaned closer once the others stopped paying attention, voice lowering, “A sample of that warmth would be welcome whenever you choose, _corizon._ ”

Ferox’s own suggestion which had been half in jest, on reflection didn’t sound bad, so he again shared actual thoughts with the new addition, “I figure if I can have a dream of sleeping indoors with a real mattress and not bathing in a stream, my daydream might as well have a cherry on top.”

The mug was sipped from contentedly, the smile it didn’t really hide from the angle Ferox was looking, was warmer than any cup of tea could be. “How interesting that you have been sharing my own night-wishes.”

They always started with the familiar, if not a massage, then at least tasting. Ferox was aware it had to be very slow going for Zevran. The only time impatience ever was shown was if Ferox wouldn’t allow the elf to check over an injury if one had been sustained. Or if the assassin thought that Ferox was pushing himself too fast, constantly holding the steps to a speed that could be maintained. In the forest after the ruins, at the outskirts of the Dalish camp, plenty of privacy still afforded, lips had joined fingers in some of the explorations, and in Denerim there had nearly been more, but the Crow had been correct - pushing his steps too fast led to upset and tension, self-disappointment that he hadn’t been able to bring himself to go farther. But that was past, feeling like months rather than the weeks to march from Denerim to the Coastlands, winter coming to the rising ground faster until their only option was to go forward. It was good that they had laid in so many supplies, Shayle lending its strength after a bit of cajoling from the elf pressed up against him.

That entire scene had made Ferox want to grab the Crow and kiss him soundly as the great theatre of yanking on a cart with much noise and upset discomfort on his fine features, only to fall flat, had been priceless. Shayle had scoffed about the ‘squishy creatures’ and had rather willingly lent a shoulder to drawing another cart. Levi said his family was nearby and could be called upon to bring supplies and join them at the Soldier’s Peak so long as it was reached within the next few days, with any old spells and undesirable problems dealt with. Worst case if it wasn’t sound enough for winter, the mountains were riddled with caverns, that with Oghren and Bodhan’s ‘stone-sense’ could be found. That was what they had been doing for camps as often as possible, no matter that the pressing stone had been difficult to bear.

The stop for lunch was over and they carried on. Zevran peeled away from the group when he spotted tracks, grabbing his bow and quiver, as well as a long spear to go with the emergency pack all had been admonished to carry, and Ferox had motioned for the hound to go with him. The bow would be little good in the damp, but if it held for a single shot, then that was good. Hours later camp was settled and Zevran hadn’t returned. Worry began to gnaw as the darkness became deeper. It was too cold for the Antivan to be out, even dressed as he was with the mabari in tow. Wild barking grabbed attention, and Ferox was up, the others already reaching for weapons.

But familiar wild laughter was with that barking too. “Braska! This thing is heavy!”

Meeting Zevran and Horse, who both had lengths of rope tied about their chests, hauling two carcasses, the extra blankets had been used to fashion a travois. Stopping dead in his tracks at the size of the elk and to his utter shock - a snowcat. A big one. They did travel great distances, but they were better suited than wolves for the farthest south areas, while the wolves stayed north. There was much shock and surprise and they all set to butchering the prizes, fat carefully scraped from flesh to coat and set to protect the precious food. Later it could be used for fuel or more food in a pinch. He basically told the two madly successful hunters to go lay down after a healing while the others took care of everything else. At the rate they were going, an actual travois or three would need to be made to carry the fresh supplies.

Entering their tent to see Zevran wiping down from a steaming bucket, “How’d you manage that?”

“Hmn? Found some firerock, look - warm bath,” pointing with a smile, scrubbing at an underarm.

Making a face, “Alright, why didn’t I think of that? Or you think of that earlier? But that’s not what I meant - how did you manage the cat and the elk?”

“Hmn...the elk was what I was searching for, the cat took exception to my not relinquishing my kill, or being on the menu as well, and sought to rectify it. Instead, the tables were turned. Though, if your good hound was not with me, then it is likely it would have been different, yes?”

“Very different. I meant, hauled it all back? Although now that you mention it...the cats aren’t exactly _friendly_ either.”

A waved hand and using a dirty shirt to dry off with, “Rope, rope, canvas and blankets, hmn? Between Ser Hound, hah - you know, that would make a good mabari name - Ser Hound, Surround, eh? Get it? Hmn, I am ridiculously awesome,” too busy laughing at his own joke. Clearing his throat once, the assassin looked at Ferox, “A good harness, two strong backs, a spear to keep shoving in the snow to help drag us along - and a good chunk of time. Honestly, once I was halfway, I seriously considered just focusing on that overgrown housecat, and finding the way back to the elk after getting more backs and legs to help. But it was falling dark and, frankly that was not a situation I wished to be caught out in either way.”

“Ridiculously awesome or not, Wynne’s healing was short at best,” disgruntled at their healer.

A hand was presented, fingers waved side to side, then the other hand, then both feet and then ears swiveled. “No frostbite, _amora._ No concussion, just the adrenaline of a good thrill a few times in one day.”

“Nevertheless, stand up, spin around and show me your bite marks, and saying that they’re mine will win no points for the day.”

Zevran stood, stooped in the tent, black ink hiding some of the holes, and Ferox was never so grateful for the strength of drakeskin, as the teeth and claws hadn’t gotten in very far. Far enough to need care, but nothing life threatening.

“I wish you had allowed for heavier armour.” The signature growling had set in, despite good intentions, “Let me finish cleaning what you cannot see then get these dressed.”

“ _Amora, mi amora,_ if I had been in heavier armour I _would not_ be here. My defense is speed, agility and stealth. Heavier armour ruins that. What I have is strong enough, I can patch it with that skin we peeled off from that little lizard two caves back, hmn?” The Crow stretched out to allow for the repairs to flesh, “Strength and intellect are the other defenses, but armour does not affect that, hmn.”

“At the moment, I believe you are trying to bribe me, to soothe my anger at the situation, at Wynne, at myself on not sending another -”

Interrupting, “And at myself, for not field butchering the carcasses and returning to gain others. Cold as it is, sometimes I forget that this is not Antiva, that hunting alone is often deadly - rather than owing to flora and fauna as I am accustomed to, but to weather.” Zevran glanced at him over a shoulder, “I am sorry, _amora._ ”

Disarmed, which happened often enough when sparring with Zevran, Ferox learned to keep other weapons at hand. It was how he had gotten better with a shield, or sometimes resorted to other weapons which were not his speciality. It had become a bit of a game, this however, was no game, was not amusing, and frankly, it scared him.

Ferox continued to clean then salve the punctures, “I am sorry too,” uncertain if it was for growling, not sending another with him, or for leaving a weakness in his defenses. Depending on how it was looked at and by whom, this opening was either being exploited by, or filled by an elf, who was a Crow, an assassin, a scoundrel and, Maker preserve us, a foreigner.

But there was confusion, “About what? You did nothing, certainly nothing stupid. I own my mistakes, _amora_. So I can see no reason to be sorry.”

“Oh, there are many reasons, I assure you. First of which that I know the weather, and yet did little other than to put you at risk.” Packing one of the bites with a poultice that was sticky with harvested beeswax and honey, ”Leliana may not like getting her dainty boots wet, and an archer may not have been very productive given the humidity, but she moves quieter than most. Better yet, as she is more attuned to cities, send myself...yes without the heavy, sink-in-the-drifts armour. I hunted regularly with my father beginning at a very young age which is why Horse knows what he’s doing.”

“‘Horse’?” absolute confusion until the mabari in question woofed, nosing at a brown, bare foot. “Ah - you have a name at last, well it is good to meet you, my friend,” leg snaking out to rub a large head receiving a happy panting smile from the mabari. “I am grateful for your fortuitous rescue and the good advice you have given me thus far this year, but you really should learn to not leave so much slobber behind when raiding packs - it is a dead giveaway.”

“He has always had a name.” True, the hound’s name wasn’t Horse, per se, but that could remain a secret as it wasn’t important. To the mabari in question, “No, don’t lick me, just because I decide to foolishly introduce you. You’ll make me sorry and I’ll change your name to Puss, and since I can’t shout that into the forest or anywhere near a town, you can be called Cat.”

Zevran deadpanned, “Meow.”

“You, ser, aren’t funny either and I have half a mind to drag an insolent mage in here to finish her work.” Growled muttering, “Healing one fully and not the other then begging off that she did not have enough energy. We met nothing today on the trail worse than ourselves and a brace of rabbits.”

“If you drag her in, you must give me a moment so that I am properly ‘attired’ first,” propping a chin on a fist. “So that she can be greeted with good Antivan manners. Just imagine her expression, _amora._ That would make having an overgrown kitten take a swipe and nibble completely worth it.”

“If I did bring her here it would be for a healing, not a rant. But that is an amusing thought.” Finding another puncture, “What did you do, let the creature hug you?”

Zevran chuckled, “That is precisely what happened. It was that or let it land on my back, instead swinging to the side, I allowed it to greet my spear first before I let it get a hug and _dos besos_.”

“Two what?”

“ _Besos_ \- kisses. How we greet in Antiva - new people that we are introduced to, we take the other’s shoulders in hand and press a quick kiss to each cheek. Those we know better it is a full upper body embrace with two kisses,” leg waving lazily now that it was bandaged and cleaned. “Children get picked up for their hug and _besitos_ , which are usually many kisses.”

Remembering the Orlesian ‘baiser’ to kiss, it was similar enough word to be remembered and understood. “Alright, turn over and let’s see these hug marks.” Ferox pulled back, fingers still sticky with salve.

The elf did as requested, somehow still smiling, “Ah, why is it that I find your irritated expression so warming? Ah, I know - because I was hurt and you worried over me. I think you might be one of a very slim number of people to ever do that, _amora._ ”

The little that made it through the chest armour was already clean, “I can hardly believe that few worry about you. As for my concern, most of that was expended during your delayed return,” the frown deepened.

“Zamitie, Anicada, my cat Tigress, Rinna when she was alive, Taliesin at one point, Sa’id. That would be all, and I have known, and do know, a great many people, _mi amora_ ,” fingers were held up, counting them down. “Two are dead, one is fourteen years old and that is very old for a cat, so she is likely dead as well. One is hunting us, the last two who are alive are unlikely to know one way or another for a long time, but have always known that I am in danger so have learned to keep on with their lives. Therefor, yourself being one of the only other people...it is a very short list. The ratios are completely skewed, hmn?” The hand that had been counting moments before reached out to cup Ferox’s cheek, “As much as I would not wish for any concern, least of all on my account, it makes me feel...comforted that I matter to another.”

Turning his head slightly, Ferox kissed the brown palm, “I think I know what you mean, I’m struggling with that myself. It is easier to be on one’s own, yet harder as well. Easier and at the same time, more difficult to be with others. Eh, I just keep thinking that the dream, or nightmare depending on the day, will end soon enough and I’ll wake up.”

Sitting up, the Crow tugged him into a tight embrace, “Whether the Blight ends tomorrow or a decade from now, I will remain beside you whenever you awaken.”

“I’m afraid I might have to hold you to that, should you think of scampering off into the woods again, or be looking for a handy city to lose yourself in. Speaking of which, you never did say what that Slim fellow in Denerim, who wasn’t very slim at all, wanted from you.”

“Just a few errands, some breaking and entering, bit of pilfering, tweaking of Howe’s nose and similar. Though Ignacio would like me to return to Orzammar for a quick job, possibly doing those errands for him will buy us more of the Guild’s goodwill, as apparently from the information I got from Slim and that old buzzard, Taliesin is set up by the docks, waiting.” Laying down once more, “The coin earned is good, but the information - that is more useful. My old comrade is stepping on toes, and while Ignacio would clearly love nothing more than to remove that thorn, he cannot do so. The House of Crows would frown upon it. However, if a rogue Crow did so...what else was imparted to me is that other than the Guild instructing Ignacio to not hinder Taliesin, they also instructed him to assist us - apparently they are no longer certain that Loghain would be a good choice to end the Blight, as he has done nothing except to gear up for civil war and ‘dealing’ with the ‘Orlesian Threat’, that is no threat at all.”

Taking a bronze hand in his, he began working on the muscles, partially to check for strain, but mostly just to touch the assassin, “Then what is it? Granted the darkspawn have pulled nearly everything away, except for local militias, from the small towns and villages. This has opened the borders, but Loghain is not one to jump at shadows. He normally has good reasoning. I understand leaving the Wardens and the King to their fate, they were overrun, that much was clear from the view from Ishal. It was a fast flowing river of darkspawn that not even the army could hold.”

“He has become paranoid, so the palace word says.” The hand tensed just enough to hold his a moment, “It is fed and stoked. My brief encounter of him, even more than a year ago, showed a man who...well, I have seen great men fall, _amora._ Whatever he once was, he is that no longer and has not been for quite some time. It hung about him like a far too heavy and sodden cloak.”

“Cailen was the only son, as far as Loghain knows, of Maric. Guilt would be a very understandable reaction.”

“It was not recent, a slow decline, recently made strong.” Shrugging, “Or that is what I saw in the one formal minute I was face to face with him. However, I watched him for an hour or so, and another after Howe showed me the boot.”

“That particular man has a date with the family sword and shield. A date I am greatly looking forward to. As for Loghain, his fate has yet to be decided, I would prefer for him to join with us as he still has influence, the backing of the army, and that would go a long way towards healing some of Ferelden’s wounds or at least save its sorry ass from the Archdemon.”

“I believe after all the hiking you have done that the least you are owed is a vacation, _amora_. If Loghain is alive by the end of this, let him accept any titles they try to heap on you out of ‘gratitude’ and let us settle and be scandalous as you rule your teyrnir.” Scooting beneath the blankets, Zevran shivered once, “For now all I can offer to heap you with is myself and blankets, though perhaps that is more for my chilly self than you.”

Salve returned to the assassin’s pack, Ferox settled in the familiar dents that cradled his spine, “My small kingdom is currently reduced to the contents of this tent, a hound, two sets of armour and a few weapons, but you are welcome to it and what warmth I can provide.”

Arms slipped around him, burrowing close, “A pauper or a king, or anything in between, it only matters that you are yourself, _amora_ , and allow me to be present in your kingdom.”

Real laughter shook him ruining his ‘complaint’, “Bloody elf, if I threw you out now I’d let the cold back in! An’ besides every time I leave, you follow. Should change your name to Horse.” Squeezing Zevran tightly, the amusement reduced to a rumble, “I am glad you are so persistent. Couldn’t imagine doing any of this without you here like this.”

“Then do not,” echoed words, warm breath on his neck. Teasing gently, “If for no other reason that you are accustomed to my presence, hmn?”

What was still occasionally hard to be accustomed to was the presence of thick hardness trapped between them, hot skin radiating, flexing time to time, the weight resting against his thigh. Even clothed, oddly before, even when the elf would sate needs while Ferox kissed and held him, the awareness hadn’t been so strong. But now it was as though every time they relaxed, it was suddenly ‘present’, suddenly ‘there’, suddenly ‘real’ and completely fascinating, like the rest of Zevran. The first time together hadn’t been a fluke with the multiple releases, once in Denerim there had been no fewer than five that Ferox counted. It was a mystery as to how it was possible, or why it happened with him. Ferox had gathered the courage to ask if that was normal, to which was replied that it was for an elf, and that Zevran was content with one or two, that more than a couple was pleasant but not necessary.

“So what’s the maximum, just out of curiosity?” as he rubbed at Zevran’s hip, thumb running a circle near the deep line of tendon.

“The maximum? Of what _amora_?” the purring that Ferox liked starting as a shoulder was rubbed by a prickly cheek.

“Assuming one wasn’t rubbed raw, or fell over from exhaustion or any other natural cause or act of the Maker, what would be the maximum number of times you could physically ejaculate in one sitting, as it were.” If that wasn’t clearer, Ferox didn’t know what was.

The purring stopped, slightly startled before laughing, “I have no idea, _amora._ It is true I have...experimented to athletic proportions, but anything beyond a dozen within two hours is more than I would prefer at absolute max... However I believe during a contest of endurance when I was twenty, I totaled somewhere along the lines of five days having sex in a row, and...I believe they stopped counting at some point during the second day. Or was it day three...? I do not recall, I was rather inebriated. And sore. But we did stop for food, drink, and the much needed physical matters of washing the areas in question - quickly though, and other such things. No sleep though.”

Zevran cleared his throat, “Keep in mind that I was quite young at the time, truly not long out of pubescence, so my body was...let us just say...difficult to manage at times. Hence some of the assignments I was given. But a _shemlen_ Crow did not understand why he was passed over for the ‘desired’ assignment, and demanded...well. Not a ‘duel’, but far more than a ‘competition’. Some of those rumours about elven sex drive are not untrue. We just do not like to be describe as ‘animals in heat and/or rut’. No matter if there are a few years when that truly is an apt description... Apparently I was worse than most. My Master was greatly displeased with us. One of my fellows had his heart rupture trying to keep up, and myself and my challengers were no good for any work for weeks afterwards - a Crow dead and four unable to do anything as we were too fatigued. And there was the minor fact that we were banned from the seven brothels we visited...for life.” Zevran coughed delicately, “I was raised and taught that sex is an art-form, that it is best when it is done well, that giving less than what I am willing and able to, is disrespectful. Up to a certain age for me it was an act of meditation and relaxation in any form it took. It was not until some point with Rinna that it became an act of other things beyond the physical.” Another pause, “...There _is_ a reason I have to take matters in hand several times a day.”

Although the question of age had been trying to distract him from the rest of the conversation, Ferox had been rather quiet until that point. “Wait. What?” Smacking the heel of a palm into his eye socket and rubbing vigorously in disbelief. “But we only...in the evenings...sometimes in the morning too...”

Zevran hid his face in Ferox’s shoulder, “I press often enough. And I hate waking you. And asking for a ‘hand’ around lunchtime when I go off to take a piss... Honestly those are just to relieve the tension that builds, not for enjoyment. There was this one time Maestro Pedro locked me into a chastity belt for two weeks for some infraction or other. _Two weeks._ Let us just say that by that point I made your foulest mood look pleasant. He regretted it greatly for the eight hours it took him to die from lanthrax...”

Ferox was forced to narrow his vision, or rather his hearing. The entire disclosure was there and no doubt the words and explanations would be listened to over and over until he was tired of them. But the important bits had been sieved out...or more accurately, what he perceived was important. The other things, he had shoved in a corner and wasn’t looking at, or rather, listening to.

“I like to be woken up by you,” softly. “And it occurs to me that I have put some restrictions on our activities that I no longer desire.”

“Ferox,” Zevran’s tone wasn’t sharp, but it was something between chiding and warning. “That was not said to pressure or to compare. I was trying to answer truthfully, nothing more. We give our all with whatever acts we do. That is all I desire, require, or request.”

“Other than asking things I probably shouldn’t because the question flies out of my mouth before I can stop it, you should know by now that if I have said something it is because I have thought about it for some time.” Threading a hand through Zevran’s loose hair, “Such is the case here, not rash words to be regretted, but ones with many miles behind them. There is no pressure or comparison, the conversation was merely a reminder that I had already come to a decision several days previously on this subject.” Noting that the usually talkative elf, wasn’t, he added, “I’m just saying that I’m done thinking about it, have made up my mind, and am moving on to a new thing to puzzle over. Yes?”

The Crow hugged him tighter, “I would not harm you so that is why I am uncertain.”

Ferox was about to say something but the words stilled on his lips as the Antivan kissed him. That was always what happened first, many times that was all it was, and many times there would be more. Slowly Zevran disengaged and went to the bucket and his pack, pulling out a couple vials of firerock, uncorking them and depositing them in the bucket, so that warmth radiated from the bucket. He returned with one of the little pots of unguent to set beside their bedroll but left it corked, and Ferox raised the blankets for him to get back under them, tugging the elf back into his arms. In the Frostback Mountains, following slim leads to a way to save Arl Eamon, Ferox had wanted nothing more than to kick the assassin from his bed. Now, he didn’t know how to deal with the thought of Zevran _not_ being beside him at the least. It was disconcerting what nearly a year could do.

In some ways it was _more_ disconcerting in light of what he knew about the Crow that the man had been so patient with him. It didn’t happen all the time, but there were instances where Ferox couldn’t stop slamming into the wall of not understanding _why_ the elf wanted to be near him. At least the want of something beyond the simple need for body heat when the temperatures plummeted in a free-fall.

As the tent warmed further from their bodies and the Crow’s quick thinking, Ferox glanced towards the bucket, “Have I mentioned that you’re my favourite elf in this whole wide tent - nay, the whole, wide camp, even.”

Zevran’s lips quirked, “Hmn, truly? My that is a very large quantity of elves to choose from, and I am your favourite?”

“An elf amongst...well an elf,” returning to laughter. “As I said, I have a very small kingdom.”

“It is all the kingdom needed, _amora_ ,” said with an answering grin followed by a kiss.

Rubbing his hand over Zevran’s side, his hand ached the way it did randomly during the day or night, wishing to hold the elf and feel thick veins pulsing against his palm. Even though he knew he could have that whenever he wanted it, Ferox always began with the first thing. The important thing. The taste of sunshine, that thing that could banish the winter outside, the darkness inside, and leave a merrily dancing light that nothing could touch, so long as it was there. He always took as long as possible there, basking in the beam of sunlight that sifted into the dusty dark below, bringing with it the hope of day and life along with its clean air. When he was tired and thought he couldn’t shoulder the next day, let alone the night, it was there, waiting for him to step into that and go closer to the exit. Leading him through the storm like a lighthouse, helping him navigate the shoals. How the sun could think itself somehow lesser, or not enough, was baffling and wrong, and in that moment Ferox thought himself very foolish for having ignored that exit to safety for as long as he had.

How many times he had touched and held Zevran close didn’t seem to matter much, there was always the thrill of discovery. The texture of neck or the sound it caused might be the same as the time before, but it still sounded new. His sun-drenched lover guided his hand to the hardness between them as it always did, giving permission and requesting for the familiar steps to commence. Finding his way there, sinking lower, the warmth of their bodies having filled the space beneath the blankets, Ferox re-explored sensitive skin, rubbed his cheek against the downy coppery-blond-brown curls and listened to the sounds of hunger from above. Dark skinned legs parted, allowing him to settle, but Ferox wasn’t left untouched, hands worked at his braid, thighs embraced and stroked against him as his tongue slid and tasted his way up and down and around the powerful arousal. Taking in as much as he could, just wanting to feel it, swallowing several times no matter that he could go no farther, knowing and remembering himself, just how good that felt. And he was rewarded by a groan, the shallow roll of hips - all signs that the dance was being carried forward according to the plan in place and set there through careful searching.

Hand exiting the blankets to reach for the jar that sat in its customary place, uncorking it by feel and taking what was needed, he gently stroked along the crevice to make sure it was slick enough. A second dip of fingers into the jar and his mouth still tonguing at Zevran’s cock as he began the play of digits around the ring of muscles, each touch causing the elf’s hips to twitch towards him in search of more. It wasn’t until the pleading whimper the panting sound of his name that Ferox allowed himself to feel the interior heat. From there it never took long, especially when he ran his hand over his assassin’s chest, reaching towards the face and receiving nipped and sucked fingers for the trouble. There was a warning, given to let him know, not to stop him, but to give him the option, one he never took. Salt spurted over his tongue and he sucked harder, a stream of unintelligible sounds and grasping muscles that became a moan then turned to a snarl.

Returning to the air of the tent, hand pulling away gradually to not do harm, his mouth was taken and claimed instantly with Zevran’s wanting lips, hands tightening in his hair, leaving Ferox breathless. The only thing that could be considered unpredictable was whether the assassin would be direct or meander, depending very much on his mood, but that too was familiar. Rumbling as he caught his breath, it was a constantly starting and stopping thing, entirely due to whatever Zevran was doing. Sucking kisses were strewn across his chest, down his hips, to his thighs, thumbs rubbing behind his sack firmly as lips parted to suck one testicle then the other, firm enough to tug, but far from hard enough to hurt. Then the unscripted part began, slowly, gently, coaxingly. A leg was propped up, his sack pushed aside and lips began there. That was when Ferox had had to ask Zevran to stop last time, but this time he just wanted to feel. The brief touch from the last new experience had haunted him as it _had_ felt good, it was just too much at the time for whatever reason that was unimportant and couldn’t be recalled at the moment. Slick teasing sent a shudder through him, bidding Ferox to open himself further, going tortuously slow at the same time.

Farther south that mouth travelled, barely moving it seemed like for long minutes until he would have to bite his tongue or risk whimpering, which probably happened anyway. So it went until there was kissing and lapping and swirling at him, and Ferox just wanted more, the rumbles stopping only for the groans that came as the strong muscle pushed firmly and slid in, then out, only to repeat. Muscles tight in his legs, feet managed to plant themselves, his hips tilting to ask for more, anything would do so long as there was no stopping. It was a struggle to not take his manhood in hand to add that to the flexing tide that was the plane he existed in, but he refrained, hanging on, not wishing to rush. Without thinking, Ferox took the jar, sliding it beneath the blankets to bump against Zevran’s hand where it wrapped around his leg. The Crow didn’t stop working with his mouth, hand touching the jar to see what it was before taking some and then there was a different press, a single finger finding its way into his body while that tongue slid around the opening repeatedly, easing the passage of the strong digit. A second came, but from the other hand, each rubbing the passage in different ways, and Ferox found his back curling forward, uncontrollably shaking as he was also being swallowed in one long push, and he grabbed for Zevran’s head. It wasn’t to push him away, but to hold him closer, unable to stop his hips from rising, and whatever sound he made it was helpless and Ferox thought his mind would flee from the onslaught.

Choking, “More,” head thumping as his toes curled, scrunching soft bedding.

Zevran was somehow able to hold him at the precipice, backing off before orgasm was forcefully imminent, then moving in for more as soon as Ferox had _almost_ caught his breath. The world was impossible to comprehend, action was just something that others did, because he was unable to act beyond plead for more, rumbles long gone had been replaced by whines and whimpers. There was more, slowly, gently, gradually - yes, but it was more, much more. He barely noticed when Zevran would take more salve to add, just that each time he felt more open. Then suddenly it was overwhelming, there was a presence rubbing and stroking internally, massaging, but it was -

“ _Maker!_ ” straining, grabbing, Zevran’s shoulders from the vicinity of his waist, and Ferox babbled, locking around the wrist to keep that hand inside his body.

“Shhh, _amora_ , relax, let it happen, I am here,” cheek resting over Ferox’s breastbone, the other hand holding and working along his shaft while the impossible stroking and twisting continued. Gold eyes shown like a cat’s, catching and reflecting light from the blankets that had been pushed back to make a hood, watching Ferox raptly, “Braska, you are beautiful, _amora_.”

Trembling, Ferox was overcome, unsure what he was feeling, but he was just unable to stop, held surrounded and containing the breadth of an entire sun. It was too much and his world exploded, heart thundering in his head and throat and stomach, blood pumping so strongly that he could feel it in his fingertips and in his tongue. It was no free-fall - it was a wild leap, head first, diving towards the ground, arms out to embrace it, and shattering as he was welcomed at once, reassembling but awareness of anything outside of the molten reality was unimportant and not noted.

Gradually reality came back, the one where, outside the tent, snow laden wind blew, roared really, but was barely heard over the ringing in his ears. The tent was hot somehow, the heat generated having filled it to capacity, even more than what the impromptu water-fire-heater invention could account for. There was also internal pressure, still filled, the motion stilled, and a lazily cleaned set of fingers were stroking his brow. Catching them, Ferox licked them until they were fully clean, then the palm, going over the hand until he was satisfied with it.

“I will need that back if I am to get the other one out without harm, _amora,_ ” pleased amusement and light teasing. “You have a very strong hold on me.”

Blinking blearily, Ferox could only agree, “Yeah...”

More unguent was gathered, running along the orifice to coax it loose, almost too much, too good after the incredible fall he had taken. Zevran took his time, taking long pauses to help the muscles acclimate to their usual state. Finally the hand was free, a depressed moan at the absence issuing forth unbidden.

Zevran was sheepish as he lay beside him, “I had not intended on pushing the bounds quite so much...but you were enjoying it so much...and were so beautiful...I...could not stop.”

Words were formed by moving one’s mouth. Movement was attained by flexing one’s muscles in a certain sequence. Concentrating with the two tiny bits of brain that were still baking in the noonday heat, Ferox eventually, days later, rolled to his side and pressed in face into the sun. He was fairly certain that he said something, the word began with a ‘z’ after that it could have been anything.

An arm curled around him, holding him securely, “You are unhurt?”

Was it a week later when his head finally obeyed his thoughts and nodded and and even more delayed, “Uh huh,” was heard? Hopefully at least.

“Good,” relief painting sculpted features. Zevran rearranged the blankets and blew out the lantern. “You do not mind if I take a few moments to finish myself?” Ruefully, “As much as I found my own climax watching you, my physiology is making demands of me quite vociferously.”

A whimpered, “No, help self. I be riiiiiiight here.” Listening to himself, Ferox wondered if he had been drinking. He was tracking the sun, just not with his eyes...

Zevran’s hips worked, thrusting into the firm grip Ferox could feel at his stomach, until there was the moaning snarl. But he didn’t stop, an arm worming under and around Ferox’s shoulders, pressing close, face tucked into his neck, tongue licking at the sweat there, until several more of those releases came, the sound of it wet as Zevran worked himself into his hand, light tremors rocking the elven frame until he finally went lax.

Awaking wrung out and still buzzing from head to toe, Ferox groaned, pulling Zevran closer. For a brief second he wondered if he could just find a nice little plot of land with a small farmstead where he and Zevran could hide out and let the Blight pass them by, throwing all responsibility and accountability to the wind. But Blights took years to end, too much could happen, and they had already done so much it would be a waste to give it all up. Besides, even if what _he_ wanted personally was to just walk away, it wasn’t what he could do. If Zevran asked, he might seriously consider it long and hard before saying no, yet it was unlikely such a thing would happen. Even if it would be a much better excuse than what he had come up with when trying to find a way to leave everyone on their own while Alistair and Flemeth badgered him.

The Crow yawned, nestling in closer and gave a quick lick to the angle of Ferox’s jaw, “Mmmn, good morning my gorgeous _shem._ ” Brief brush of lips and a stretching arch, “How are you feeling, _amora_?”

“It’s all good, ‘cause I’m with you.”

Contented noises, “Mmn, perhaps if we are lucky we will find the Peak today and rest indoors, now that would be luxury, but that means leaving this pleasant cocoon, a thought I do not wish to entertain overmuch, yet we must...”

“Entertain? Who?” a smack to an eye followed by a swiveling rub of the heel of his hand.

“Leaving the tent to tramp some more when I have a gloriously attractive and precious Ferox here beside me,” leg tangling around Ferox’s.

Still stunned with sleep, “But, this is nice here.” For variety, he rubbed his other eye socket before blearily opening them. Pulling back enough to focus, “You are...very pleased with yourself.”

There was what could only be classified by the limited words he could summon as ‘dopey’ grin Zevran’s face, “And why should I not be very pleased with myself? I have never seen such pleasure on your face and to have been part of its cause - well, of course I am pleased with myself.”

It might be snowing outside, but the sun was shining in his tent. “No, not part - you are the _only_ cause.” Listening to the satisfied voice that reached out to coat him, it occurred to Ferox that there might be a way to slow down the morning. With a bit of careful shifting to avoid cold morning air from sneaking in to steal their warmth, Ferox settled on Zevran. Resting his ear over the elf’s heart as eyes still filled with sand closed again, “Thank you for hittin’ me upside the head.”


	3. Chapter 3

Winter settled in, the Peak was relatively cleared, and tents had been set up in the rooms, the enclosing canvas granting greater warmth and added privacy. Zevran and Ferox had ‘appropriated’ the Warden Commander’s office as it had its own fireplace, small as it was, after a bed had been salvaged and repaired to put in it too, but mainly because there had been several grouchy complaints. And not all of them had been from Wynne. Apparently he and the Crow were rather vocal, and with winter the frequency of being ‘rather vocal’ had increased. 

It wasn’t like there was much else to do. 

During clearer weather, Ferox and Zevran, with Horse happily in tow, would go out searching for anything that could be scavenged. After a good hard freeze, they had gone out with Levi Dryden as well, heading towards a town several days away, trading pelts that had been gathered, except the snowcat’s which Ferox was unwilling to let Zevran part with. Not even for ten sacks of onions. _Especially_ not for ten sacks of onions. But cabbage, salt, buckets, shovels, crocks of jam, several large bales of hay, and a goat for milk - and meat when the fodder ran out - were paid for amply with carved bone handles and pelts that had been scraped beautifully. He had relented though and let the elf grab a few bags of onions, garlands of garlic, as many hands of ginger as could be begged to be traded, sacks of flour, potatoes and some cheesecloth. Some things were paid for with extra drakeskin scraps that had been fashioned into belts and one exquisite set of vambraces, bargains driven hard enough that Levi finally gave up and told Zevran to do his purchasing too. Little of their stores of coin were spent, only half of what had to be gained required precious gold, gold that would be needed for the long Blight ahead of them.

The entire group - the Dryden clan and the ragtag band - went about repairs as they could, husbanding their resources as more would not be easily gained. Pickled cabbage was made, frequently tossed into soups of meat and snow, filling, warming, and good to stretch what they had even further, while warding off rabbit fever. Zevran’s little trick with firerock was employed throughout the areas where they all resided, providing further warmth to have when coming in from the cold. During a particularly sober hour, Oghren had said that he could feel a difference in the stone, refusing to listen to the others telling him it was nothing, and began hammering at a section of wall, Bodhan quickly joining him, and the resulting opening blew in a great deal of warmth, the scent of mineral laden water reaching them. Glowing lichen had made the berserker happy, as that meant he could set up to brewing some ‘decent stuff’ to drink without touching their stores. As for the others, Ferox included, the revelation and find of a hotspring was a grand boon. Not the least for the way Zevran tackled the water as often as he could, splashing and diving and playing about nearly like an otter.

One morning late in the winter, the start of spring in the lowlands of Ferelden due in just a handful of weeks, Ferox was staring at nothing, drowsy, and realized something. He was more than content. He was _happy._ It was startling, when had this thing happened? Was there a moment he could point to and say that it was then that his life changed the way it had the night his world came crashing down? Or was it a collection of little pebbles that added into a landslide, changing the landscape that was in its path? Absentmindedly stroking the blond haired head on his shoulder, he pondered the situation. What would he do with this thing? Did he have to do anything about it? One moment he wanted to say something, but was brought up short by caution. Wynne’s words, Zevran’s own, and Ferox’s experiences blended, reminding him of reality.

Nothing was permanent. 

Here in the quiet safety of Soldier’s Peak it was tempting to sink into that, to hold it tight, to deny the fact that anyone, at any time, could be torn from him. Or he from them. By his deeds, Ferox had already given himself away, had already shown his love towards this one beside him. But to cement it in words? He wouldn’t do that to either of them until the Blight was over, the Archdemon slain. History was clear that going up against such a creature was very dangerous and many did not survive. To bind himself to another was unthinkable, no matter that he had already done so, far more than was likely wise, let alone safe. And yet he wished for nothing more than to hold on to the sunlight, to never see it go dark, to never bring a shadow to it - either because it left him, or because he left it.

Yet between the two of them, Ferox was sure that the sun would survive if anything did happen to him. It had managed to do so before, and Zevran was nothing if not a survivor. He would last one way or another. Squeezing his partner closer, who made a sleepy noise, truly heavy in rest, a new occurrence, evidence of further ties, Ferox pressed his face into the golden crown, seeking the comfort there and in meticulously going over the supplies and plans that _could_ be made.

Having handed down the Juggernaut set to Alistair, to spar, Ferox had been wearing the new heavy dragon plate, the strongest armour to date. As far as actual weight went, it was actually a little lighter than the ancient, spell resistant plate. Bodhan looked through his stores and located an excellent helmet with a similar design and thus Bergen’s Honour was added to the set. They had put aside Cailan’s armour, even though it was also excellent, as neither Alistair nor himself were interested in wearing it, and it seemed presumptuous...for reasons neither of them wanted to discuss.

After their run-ins with multiple dragons, understanding from history that the Archdemon was nothing like them, merely in a similar form, Ferox knew that he had to keep the creature’s attention. Without providing that focus point, the point where all violence should be directed, the others would be lost. Should Ferox fall, Alistair stood the next best chance of keeping that focus, followed by Sten in the lighter dragon plate. The plans and backup plans were continually adjusted based on equipment, newly mastered skills, and acquired weapons. The trouble was, the battlefield was unknown, and in all likelihood would not be chosen by them. Nearly all of the pieces were available, the last to obtain would be the other half of the army and its general. The planned for future moves against the self appointed crown was not something to be done lightly, which was why the treaties were fulfilled and gathered first. 

As soon as the passes were clear enough for travel, they would strike down to Redcliffe at a fast march, avoiding towns as much as possible and living off the land. It wouldn’t be pleasant, but the longer they avoided announcing their intentions, the better. Having spent the nearly three months without stirring up any trouble, the called Landsmeet would be startling and come as a shock. A surprise move. The bit of news that had been obtained during the last meeting in a town for supplies, nearly a month ago, was that nothing had changed politically since he and the others had burrowed in for winter. 

Zevran pulled him back with a small, curious, but very much still asleep, “Mmn?” before rolling over partially onto his back once Ferox ‘replied’ with a nuzzle and press of lips to the dark forehead.

Now that he knew exactly what Zevran was like when in deep sleep, it made those first weeks, months, of feigned deeper sleep obvious. After he had told the assassin to stop worrying or thinking about what to do to remain where he was, Ferox had learned that the Crow awoke to noises that were remotely out of turn, and _every_ noise in the tent or just outside of it. Now he slept, immovable and heavy, his breathing just the side of audible, lips parted, and making faces as eyes shifted beneath lids. That was recent, a product of being at the Peak, laying beside him and even if Ferox got up to move around, the elf remained asleep. Even leaving the room and returning was possible, a faint murmur that would question and Ferox would whisper that it was just him and he would either be right back or tell the Crow to go back to sleep. 

Yawning, Ferox rolled onto his side, arm folded and used as a pillow, and studied the sleeping profile, wanting to etch it into memory. With so much ahead uncertain, this surety was solid ground that steadied him. At one point, after a particularly difficult afternoon filled with traps with wolves, then traps with darkspawn, he had snapped cold, foolishly, looking back. They had come so close that day to losing several of the company, a frightening thought considering previous losses on dark nights. Hardening himself, he had told himself that he did not care about them, cared only for their survival, he was on his way to freezing them out. Would have, until someone colder was freezing in his bed. Zevran’s need had provided the opening, but it was his steadiness that had slowly warmed him. The vows he had made during that time were still in effect, but the intentions were different, the same words, changed only by perspective, encompassing more layers than the narrow scope he had allowed himself. Smoothing aside wayward hair from the high brow, the faint etchings from laughter and skin folding as deep thoughts often furrowed the flesh, the elf’s breadth of humour and thought wrote itself across his features. 

Slim laugh lines around the mouth, so quick to rouse to laughter, even faster to smiles, showing a full set of teeth, with one canine slightly offset and crooked. It was a tiny ‘imperfection’ but when considering how many they came across who were missing this or that bit, the overall neat ivory glinting was startling. Especially with how many knocks to the head and face he had seen the Crow take. The bottom lip had an off-center scar, one that would open if someone struck him there, and the one time it had happened accidentally during a practice bout with Sten, Ferox had heard a snarl. It was rare to hear any noise of anger, or to see the Antivan’s posture change towards it, and for a moment he had thought he would have to drag Zevran from the match, because he had begun to blur, moving faster than Sten could track. He had been close to signalling a paralyze from Morrigan, but an odd kick delivered had sent the Qun’ari staggering and the assassin had spit a spray of blood on the ground before stalking away. Later that same day when Alistair had gone against him, Ferox noted how his fellow Warden had bashed his shield in Zevran’s face - an action Ferox had disapproved of, but saw what Alistair was trying to do. It was an obvious trigger for anger, as for the second time the assassin, didn’t lose control of himself, but had definitely lost some sense of whether it was a practice bout or an actual fight.

Leaning in, he pressed his lips to that spot that could have come from age and sun, but he suspected was truly from being hit in the mouth regularly for whatever cruel reason. Against his lips there was a questioning mumble that he quieted, kissing a temple quickly. It made him curious and wish to ask, but frequently when Ferox asked questions, the answers he received were expansive, containing good and bad things, and it was not something that could be undone or changed. 

In their nest of furs and blankets the past wasn’t a matter of import other than how it affected the present. Tracing the almost smoothed out rays that framed dark metallic amber-gold eyes with a thumb, he wondered how much of them were born from squinting weather, crinkling expression and wrinkling age. What ratio of those things caused the echo of a sun’s rays with the glinting orbs as twin suns gazing out on the world? And the tattoos running from temple to the corner of mouth - they were different from the ones on the bronze form. Faded and clay rich brown compared to the inky soot everywhere else. 

Mapping everything out once more, his gaze settled on the swoop of an ear before travelling again, stopping when he realized that he was being watched.

“Such an intent expression, _amora,_ ” eyes completely clear and utterly awake, often it seemed there was no break between ‘asleep’ and ‘aware’ as there was for himself. “What are you thinking to ponder so much, hmn?”

Caught by the sudden light and left unguarded, Ferox couldn’t help the smile, “Good morning.” A brief wish was made that things could go on like this forever, granted somewhere where he could play in the soil, not too hot for him, not to cold for Zevran, a comfortable mattress, a few animals, a bit of water, a library...or just a barn with a few scratchy blankets. It didn’t matter, it really didn’t matter, but he would prefer the additional bonuses of weather, bed, and other little niceties. “Just enjoying the moment and thinking that an orchard would be nice.”

“An orchard? I do not think I can manage an orchard.” Brow rising as lips quirked, “Hmn... If your teyrnir does not have orchards, something could be arranged. Might a small plantation be good enough?” 

“Apples and pears, the usual...but where would you place this plantation?”

His lover snorted faintly, “Place it? It is not mobile, unless you know of some magic that could uproot four-hundred plus acres of land and a good portion of buildings. Sorghum, sugar, spices, with several acres devoted to fresh vegetables and legumes... The atrium and as many rooms as have sunlight have small fruit trees. About ten acres are devoted to fruit trees as our preserves are something we take great pride in - only the best comes from my plantation. Also I do not think my slaves would be all that pleased with Ferelden weather. The same goes for the crops. However, we just have to kill my co-owner, unless for some reason we could convince Taliesin to throw in with us... However, that is quite unlikely.” Zevran shrugged, “It is not much, nothing more than a gentleman’s plantation, but we got a good price on it, and it is basically mine. Taliesin had little interest in it, Rinna just liked playing the role of genteel lady. I liked the numbers and puzzle of managing it... The loft in the tannery district we jointly owned and there is a townhouse that is mine entirely.” 

And that was what he got for not thinking, for saying the first thing that popped into his head. Kicking himself for what he was about to ask, he did it anyway, “And what did Taliesin do on this farm?”

“Sat around bored in the library. Practiced his fighting skills, and wondered why we did not buy the house by the river. Or a cafe or tavern or a brothel,” arms slid around Ferox. “But he has always been the impatient sort. He prefers cities to ‘mucking in mud like pigs’. Odd considering the fact that he was purchased from a poor family of farmers. Or perhaps not so odd.” 

“So why go in on a venture he did not like?” 

Zevran’s head rolled to the side as he thought, “Hmn...probably because he was outvoted. Possibly because I came into the land as part of a job, but had little collateral to staff it and cause it to be productive. Maybe because it was a way to pretend we were free? That we could retire from the Guild and live out our last years there, no matter that even if there was a possibility for retirement, that by that point one or all of us would be dead.” Sighing, “Though I have known him since we were children, I cannot claim I know the inside of his mind. Or find a logical reason as to why he wished to frame Rinna and convince me that she had betrayed not just the Guild, but us as well.”

“Only one thing jumps in my head, but I know nothing of the situation.”

A shoulder shifted under Ferox’s side, the arm drawing him closer. “He is not a greedy man, so it was not that. The three of us have shared...had shared...virtually everything since before we left the training barracks. A bed, many years of our lives, food, weapons, armour, money, property, the occasional job...”

Plenty of things to say, plenty more to ask. People changed. Was Howe always a monster who killed his friends, killed the teryn he had sworn loyalty to? How many times had he played with Thomas, Delilah, and watched his brother with Nathaniel as the dark-haired eldest Howe sought praise for his advancing weapons’ skills? The families were friends and had been for generations. Zevran indicated that there had been a change in Loghain. Was that Rendon’s influence there or the weight of duty and responsibility or loneliness and guilt? Regardless of the reasons, people change, but Zevran knew this and it did not bear saying about one he may have once called friend.

Zevran ran a hand through his hair, making it settle, “The situation I suppose was that we had been...a unit. The three of us. Not all that uncommon, hmn? Particularly amongst Crows, however the relationship dynamic usually changes frequently. Few people can tolerate or trust those in our line of work for so many years. But...normally when things come to an end there is not one dead on the floor, another left to seek death, and one left behind with all the cards...” His expression turned pensive, “Yet he did not allow me escape from Antiva or this life, when I attempted it. It took me a year to bide my time until he was off on a job, leaving me unattended to take the stupidest one I could find. And now I will have to kill him as he seeks to hunt us and do harm.”

There was too much death, retribution, and restitution on this path and the branches that were acceptable to take, to turn away from where it all led, were few and far between. Another wish, this time for better choices was made, or failing that, a new path. Seeking the death of others, ones well known or looked up to, this was impossible to think of before the night Howe and Duncan started this journey. If everything had gone as planned and his father and Rendon left the next morning and Duncan had taken Rory for the Grey Wardens, how would things be different...? He still would have been the one left behind. Shaking the thought, Ferox returned to the actual road in front of them. Rinna and Rory, both loved and both dead at the hand of another who was familiar, whether by that person’s own doing or crueler still, by the hand of who they loved. Either way, it made for cautiousness when finding care for another. 

A heavy sigh escaped him. “When...if it comes, I will be there and abide by your wishes in this matter.”

“No, he will have to die, _amora._ Unlike myself, he has never been flexible. Any chance given to him for anything _will_ be taken - but only to deliver the end of a contract and punish me for leaving him behind,” as he tucked his face into the side of Ferox’s neck. “It is nice to say that he should be given a choice, yet I know it is only lying to myself. Hmn, one thing that might be a boon though - perhaps he brought my armour, at first thinking that I was merely in the middle of the job and having a slow go of completing the contract? If so, then we most certainly will have to look for it after he is dealt with.” But there was a sad chuckle, more of a sob without tears, “More than forty years thrown away for whatever reason that I cannot comprehend.”

An endearment Ferox had yet to utter echoed in his mind as he held Zevran. Other than his offer, a promise for all purposes, to be there and to support him, Ferox had nothing else to give except for arms to hold his elf, to reassure, to make certain that he slept, was fed, happy and cared for. This situation, like so many other things on their path, was broken and most likely irreparable. Each of them on this journey had their own tale and their own sadness which drove them forward, yes, even Sten in the Fade seemed to miss his former companions, their predictability if nothing else. 

Ferox had started the conversation by asking a question, something that by now he should know better than to do. Time to consider, to puzzle over should have been taken to at least avoid the traps and prevent the dark shadow that had come over the face of his sun. It wasn’t the first question, or even the second, or the third that had been foolish, but the fourth that had been hidden in a statement. For a time, he breathed in the familiar scent of light wondering what went into it, as he could not separate what it was made of, could only see the whole. 

Slowly for him, but far quicker than most, Zevran threw off the quiet melancholy. “Ah, but that is a problem for another day.” A cleared throat and a strong squeeze was followed by a kiss. “There is another small plantation, last I heard, owned by a merchant who is never there and sells little from his crops on his routes, he might be convinced to part with it, or some of it, to plant your broad orchards. But the master bedroom of mine has frostrocks to help keep it cool, much like the keepboxes do for those with the coin to purchase them. You would not melt with the heat, hmn? We could run away from your teyrnir, no more stupid politics, hmn? Just the Guild, but when stroked the right way they go quiescent.”

“That is a nice thought, which would be made possible when Fergus miraculously is found and returns to his duties, or I am properly relieved of my responsibility. However, a thought occurs to me, if I were kept cool, you might have to keep a salt lick around...since you seem to enjoy tasting salty skin after physical activity.”

It wasn’t as mirthful as usual but it was edging towards it, “Hmn, you seem to work up a sweat even in the cold if properly encouraged.” Lips parted, sucking at the juncture of Ferox’s neck and shoulder, the sensation of tongue licking the gathered flesh moist, before he was released, a pleased hum thrumming. “Hmn, yes, even still.”

“Even still?” Rumbling, “Is that a complaint, I hear?”

“Oh, no, no, no ser, it most certainly is not,” said fervently, the press of a nose and deep inhale lending veracity to the statement. “It is quite far from a complaint, _amante._ ”

“Hrm, a new word, but I think I know it as that one is very similar to the Orlesian, amant.”

“Hmn, quite true,” lips found his brushing over them quickly. “I could use another one, hmn? _Querido._ No less true, but perhaps it will stump you.” 

Considering, pulling words from memory, “The beginning sounds a little like ‘what’, ‘why’, and almost ‘who’, all of which would be a very strange name.”

“Not so strange, as ‘what’, ‘why’ and ‘who’ are all the same, only modified by additional words. ‘ _Por que_ ’ - what _for_. Hmn? It is your language that has all these odds and ends, while mine believes that anything is a ‘what’,” teasing. “But I see I have stumped you, very good.”

Rumbling began again, “And you appear to be very pleased with yourself.” Rolling Zevran to his back, Ferox followed, hovering over him, pressing kisses to the elf’s cheekbone heading towards an ear. “What exactly must I do to hear this new word’s meaning?” voice soft while nosing the pointed tip.

Going ‘cagey’ even as the ear twitched, “Oh I do not know if I could be convinced...”

“Well I suppose I could just begin another day, if there is no hope for it.” Sighing, “I would hate to have you tell me a secret you wish to keep.” Despite sounding like he was giving up, Ferox ran his tongue up and around the cartilage, catching in the tip for a moment. When it curled, something that still intrigued, he sucked and applied a gentle press of teeth.

The purr began almost immediately, “Mmn, perhaps I might change that to that it is possible that I might be convinced...” A busy hand slid its way down Ferox’s back, “That is if you are of a mind to interrogate me, yes?”

A bit of a muted laugh, before releasing the ear. “Speaking of which, wasn’t it you who offered to warm my bed?”

“Oh I believe I warm it for you quite admirably, particularly after a good workout,” legs shifted to wrap around him, the kneading of fingers at hips strong and sure. “Particularly as you wind up needing to toss a few of the blankets off for an hour or two. And let us not forget the other night, hmn? All of them shoved to the floor...just from a _massage,_ ” said with a wicked gleam in amber eyes.

“And so you do, I withdraw the question.” Settling back into the path, he kissed Zevran, renewing the warmth and light. Familiar rituals and routine a touchstone, Ferox found the same location between the shoulder and neck that the scent driven elf seemed to favour. First kissing, then licking, and then nipping. Not finding any change in scent that his faculties could determine beyond that Zevran always smelled good, Ferox tried to bury himself in it anyway. “What smells good at this spot when you do this to me?”

Slow rolling of hips as the assassin copied the motion, taking another deep drag against Ferox’s neck, “Hmn, you smell like a man and like yourself. Whiskey and juniper berries and crisp pine and saltgrass and myself.”

“Sunlight. Although how that has scent I don’t know...heat perhaps? Leather when you have been in your armour and something sweet that always makes me think of your honey and beeswax poultice.”

“Mmn, sandalwood and amber, I brought a bag of chips that had been soaked in the oil - it is in my pack,” long strokes followed one after the other languidly. 

Another inhale as he settled against Zevran, trying to find individual scents which eluded him, “Isn’t amber...a tree sap first. Wouldn’t that smell more like pine trees than something sweet? Although, I admit that I can’t say that I’ve run around smelling different rocks or rock-like objects.”

Chuckling, “Different saps produce different forms of amber, when it is not entirely solid, it is a thick gum used in anything that can bear a scent. Pine sap amber is not particularly common or desired in Antiva - too bitter.”

“Sugar maples for syrups, I suppose...although others can be used, just not as plentiful or sweet.”

“Maple is for _eating_ , not smelling, _amante_ ,” Zevran snorted.

Between nips along a collarbone, “Still,” nip followed by another, “sap.” Tongue rolling in the hollow of Zevran’s throat, mumbling, “I do like right here though, it smells and tastes good.” Treating the other side to the same, mumbling and interspersing the words with action, “‘Sides,” nip, “when you,” nip, “have’a,” nip, “cold,” nip, “ya can’t,” nip, “taste either.” 

“Speak for yourself, _querido,_ half my ability to smell things comes from taste,” even as the purring increased it stuttered for a snort. “Even with a stuffed nose things still have a great deal of taste.” 

Ferox growled, the Crow always had an answer for everything. Either he was very well educated or he was specifically designed to win every argument with anyone...both answers being the most likely. And right now, he was taunting and withholding ‘vital’ information. Watching where the light bites reddened, he filled in any missing spaces before returning to the hollow of the throat. Gentler up the throat, Ferox returned to the sunlight kisses, in spite of the purring approval, he sought additional reassurance that he was not presuming on what was given freely. He had not previously, intentionally laid a mark on Zevran and wanted to be certain that he was not stepping over a boundary.

But the contented and very interested hum, followed by, “Oh? Now that is nice...” was all he needed, but first the assassin drew him up for another of those sunbright kisses.

Restored, Ferox returned to Zevran’s chest to swirl a tongue over dark nipples. Again, applying light biting nips, he rolled the peaked bud between his teeth, and tugged on golden hoops. Growling the entire time, he enjoyed the quiet noises of encouragement and the squeeze of legs against him. First one nipple then the other, then a line of biting kisses were laid over a rib to the elf’s breastbone as if Ferox were to begin the cycle again with the first, but upon reaching the midpoint, returned his attention to the one he just left. Repeating the actions several times, just because he could and to familiarize himself with these new dance steps. Again a trail of reddened bites on another rib following it to the breastbone and pausing as if making a decision, Ferox proceeded to the other matching rib before turning his growling attention back to the first dark sepia nipple. The same, biting, rolling and tugging gaining him the same rewards of a hitch in breathing, another squeeze of strong legs and the constant hums and purrs. Another rib was chosen to be the bitten trail back to the breastbone. 

Experiencing another moment of near indecision and uncertainty, there was an additional pause. The landscape was still recognizable, the path close to others previous climbed. A breath to soak in the oak brown skin with its faint sheen, the scent of sun and sweet to steady him, limber fingers ran through his dark hair, loosened in the night by those same questing digits. Collected, Ferox returned again to his task. Nipping bites laid over Zevran’s stomach, around the belly button in a circular pattern, every bit of skin was reddened, revisiting some for a second marking. Thorough, he did not overlook anything, while his growling rumble continued, pleased with his work.

Too warm in the layering of blankets and furs, Ferox reached up to pull off a blanket and a pelt before continuing. Morning roughened cheeks were rubbed over the red bites, further irritating the skin and Zevran chuckled while arching into the attentions. He was having fun, they both were, which brought another upwelling of heat through him. Wanting more, rubbing the same scruff against the length which he had been ignoring, the growling reduced to a rumble. 

“I’m waiting, Zevran,” as his abrasive whiskers brushed against the elf’s alert morning erection. 

“You are, are you? I have no buckets of maple sap for you to make things from,” fingers tightened against Ferox’s skull keeping him still long enough so that Zevran could sigh as he rubbed hardness against the scruff of chin. “So I am afraid that wait might be quite long, hmn?”

“That is too bad, I was beginning to think of you as breakfast and dessert. A bit of sweetening on top would be welcome. What can you offer me instead? I hear you are an excellent haggler.”

The elf was far too collected, relaxing pleasantly under the attentions, “Hmn, how about two answers to two questions?”

Ferox gave a rumbled consideration, “Better, at least there is some forward progress on your part, my delicious assassin.” 

However instead of following up with unanswered questions, of which there were many, with thumb and fingers rolling at the base of Zevran’s flexing member, Ferox began to lick and taste, tongue rolling around the sensitive head. The rumbled note of happiness continued - from both of them. Taking his time, fingers played with the spheres and rods placed under the silken skin, still fascinated with these enhancements and yet at the same time wondering why anyone would do such a thing. Pressing his lips to the base, teasing at the skin and tasting there, then choosing another spot, and then another, tongue catching on a sphere, manipulating it to feel how it slid beneath skin and over his lips. Zevran’s prick tasted as good as it felt, something about it distracting him for a moment, only wanting to spend all day there, but that wouldn’t get him the answer he wanted.

Having time to consider the offer, Ferox paused for a moment to rub his stubbled cheeks against soft skin again, “Four questions with at least two follow-up questions each.” 

Hoping to cause at least some hitch in thinking, if not in breathing, he returned to his task. He didn’t know what four questions he would choose, since there were only two currently on his mind, but it never hurt to ask for more, as he could always save them up for later. To further encourage that hitch when he noted that Zevran was obviously thinking it over, Ferox moved to the flared crown, sucking on it while massaging just behind the heavy sack, gaining the looked for reaction. 

An audible swallow came from the elf as Ferox dragged his mouth free and slid it along the side, “Two questions and three follow-ups, _amora_.”

With a harrumph, a noise not quite unlike one Horse would make when flopping in front of the fire, Ferox leaned over the edge of the mattress to find the jar of salve, which had been set on the floor the night before. Thankfully Zevran slept on the fire side of the bed, still it was going to be...very refreshing. Coming back up, with the right one, and insuring that he hadn’t uncovered either of them, he cracked the container open and gathered some of the cold lotion. “Three and three.” 

“Hmn, two questions, three follow-ups is my final offer, _querid-_ ” Zevran halted, hissing as Ferox stroked around his opening with the frigid cream, hips jerking. 

Circling lightly, pressing only enough to make the rings cave inwards partially and quickly pulling his fingertips back to continue teasing lightly, “Three and three.”

“Three and no follow-ups,” a frustrated noise almost escaped the assassin’s throat, but that catch was obvious - likely due to the fact that as soon as Zevran’s mouth opened, so did Ferox’s to run his tongue along the hoop in the tip, making the gold slide and shift while he pushed a finger in, stroking before pulling it out and his mouth away.

Doing his best to _not_ snicker, Ferox gathered a little more, not that it was needed, but just for the coolness, and sank two fingers in with a twist of his wrist. Overhead Zevran moaned, hips arching, and Ferox returned to what he had been doing - at least for a few moments. Withdrawing his slickened and now much warmer fingers and his mouth, until his lips were resting just on the tip of Zevran’s cock, fingers circling light enough that it likely tickled, he had to bite the inside of his cheek at the very put out and frustrated whine.

Mumbling against the underside of the flared end, “Three and three.” Ferox couldn’t do without the follow-up questions. He would have almost been willing to go down to two initial questions, but it was always good to have a backup plan, to hold one question in reserve, one never knew when it would be needed. Hunched in the blankets, he had withheld most of the second helping of the salve, warming it in his other hand. Since they... _he_ was veering slightly from the usual path, why not a little more? Tugging with teeth, just enough to hold the hoop, Ferox repeated, “Three and three.” 

Zevran’s hips twitched, trying to follow the stroking and his mouth, “Mmmn...three and one.”

It was progress, but Zevran’s answers always led to more questions. Searching for the firm knot in the extreme warmth and tightness, Ferox growled with a hint of a snarl, “Three and three.”

“Mmph....three and -” words were cut off by a nearly plaintive whimper when Ferox once more pulled back. “Fine - yes, yes - three and three - just...!”

Continuing with that distraction, eyes closed at how smooth muscles milked and clung to his broad fingers, Ferox worked the remainder of the second dollop where it was needed, the callus of his palm grasping the familiar weight. Carefully scooting up the elf’s body, mouth dragging over, checking and adding to the nearly faded marks from his teeth, he gingerly opened the clinging warmth, reminding himself that it was Zevran, and that any change to the dance steps would be mirrored and accepted. Hands were in his hair, shoulders hunching so that he could kiss Ferox, and the taste of the Crow made him growl, blasting away the need to reassure himself. Taking himself in hand, guiding towards that which, for whatever reason, neither had asked for. Legs tightened, hips shifted at the brush of his member against the opening, and Zevran’s arm slid down his back, embracing him with a hungry groan. 

Bracing himself to go slow, to not risk harm, to take every scrap of self-control and not go mad from the clenching and pulling Ferox expected, he blotted everything out that he could, just focusing on pushing in gradually. There was no resistance, only warmth parting and sucking him in, but Zevran’s breathing had gone long and slow, body relaxing to allow his intrusion, a hand running up and down his spine soothingly, giving him time when he had to pause for air. Panting by the time his cock was firmly ensconced, Ferox shuddered, needing to bury his face in Zevran’s shoulder. Fingers against his scalp massaged slowly, the entirety of his lover’s body embracing him, somehow even the cheek pressed to the side of his face was hugging him. Collecting his scattered nerves, Ferox blindly searched for the taste of sunshine. Mouth opened to allow his tongue to plumb it, to lick behind teeth and beneath tongue, against the inside of a cheek and the roof of mouth, familiar and familiarly-different.

Parting from those broad, whisker-free lips, a shift that almost made him forget as it brought him close enough to rest his forehead against the Crow’s, Ferox made his eyes open. Gold eyes met his, not clear and palest blue. A sharp pain - Ferox wasn’t certain suddenly if they had been grey or blue. It was too far away. Brown, such a golden hue of it, skin covered head to toe with tattoos, darkening and creating striking differences - not pale, freckled and covered with a broad swath of thick, curly, ginger-red hair. There was no frantic fumbling and desperate grasping and pulling as there had been with Rory, but the expert and steady touch, holding him secure.

Zevran’s voice was low, as the twin pools so close to his own held him, the pupils dark black, shrinking and widening slowly, the continual slow massage along the seam the ogre’s fist had left in his skull one of the best differences that always kept him anchored, “Ferox, _amora_ , you do not have to do this if you do not wish to.”

“No.” A gasp of air. “I mean, I want to...I want this.” A blink of moisture and a deep shaking breath, “I forgot something and didn’t know it was gone and -” the worst thing about it, “- I can’t get it back.”

The assassin didn’t tell him it was alright or say he was sorry, or that he understood or knew, instead he just squeezed Ferox tighter in his arms. “I am yours, _querido._ I am here for you, _amora._ ”

Another breath, steadier, “I’m glad you are here, have been here...don’t want to think what would happen if you weren’t.”

“Then do not, there is no need to, other than to torture and break the mind,” husky and dripping words as they fell from those lips.

Nodding, the worry that he would soon forget everything that was important was relinquished. With another searching kiss, Ferox fell back into the sunlight, trying to remember where he was on this journey, where the path was, and, above all, where he had been headed. The long slow breaths, steady, warming, relaxing and soothing, gradually rebuilt the heat, each rise and fall of pressed together chests vying subtly for space somehow brought him deeper - or at least reawakened the flagging desire from the temporary tumult. Kisses were shared and given, any area that could be reached was lavished gently, until Ferox’s need was once more stoked. 

Wrapping his arms around Zevran, arms hooking under shoulders so that he could hold the face and drag fingertips through the clinging soft blond strands, Ferox found the compulsion to move become overpowering. With long strokes within the silken heat, unable to look away from the elf’s face or the eyes that watched him with such quiet intensity, the hand that slid between them adjusting and lining up the thickness of his manhood so that it was trapped between their stomachs, was a fascinating vision. Legs guided Ferox’s hips to tilt, meeting him halfway with each rocking until the colour rose in the Antivan’s face, lids fluttering shut as he bared his throat. Licking dry lips, following that beckoning that was a sigh, body swallowed up and taken in, complemented and moving onwards, he ran his tongue over the throbbing vein, heard the groan, felt the tightening of every muscle, and his own breathing slowed somehow... Even as his heart pounded, the lunges were smooth and deep, focusing on every small reaction, powerless to look away from the flickering dance in amber eyes that drifted open after each kiss. The pace didn’t change, it couldn’t, even if Ferox had been foolish enough to wish it to, because he was falling into every concentrated ray of summer evening sunbeams hanging in golden falls from a window, the dancing motes floating in the air. It was the sighs, the looks, the touches, the lips moving against his or his cheek, a soundless litany, some spell spoken without noise, just breath. A pronounced shudder rippled through the lean frame holding him, shoulders lifted from the stuffed ticking and fur mattress, heat spilling between Zevran and Ferox as the assassin climaxed, lending its sticky slickness to the stroke of their abdomens against each other. Still Ferox continued to slide in and out of the gentle prison, caged within limbs that were neither cage nor prison. 

He could feel a single drop of sweat running down his spine, wet and warm, the blankets tangling and sticking to them as impossible heat was held trapped in the space they filled. The pressure built low, somewhere deep inside him, beyond the root of his cock that was being thrust in as Zevran’s hips circled beneath him, both of their breathing deepening to a faster pace, unable to stop, not that Ferox could ever think of stopping, wanting only to climb further with his lover, secure in that embrace. His pulse was pounding, throbbing and twitching in rock hard tissue, so that he was incredibly aware of the way he swelled, filling up Zevran’s tight hole as it began to clench around him, tighter and tighter and tighter, until he wasn’t sure if it was comfortable or not, but the litany that was soundless became audible. Ferox’s name and a string of words he couldn’t even identify beyond those already used and familiar. He might have said something himself, but Ferox didn’t know - his mouth was too busy pressing against any patch of skin he could reach, licking a thrumming windpipe, sucking a flexible ear, nipping at a chin. Suddenly he was crushed, emptied and flooding the arrhythmically clenching sheath, another hot spilling between bellies, and he wanted nothing more than to crawl within Zevran’s being, an effort he struggled to do anyway, pushing deeper, deep as he could go, locked in paroxysms. Blazing hot semen pulsed repeatedly and even as his brain trembled with the pleasure, he could feel his testicles draining with each spurt until there was nothing left.

Weak-boned, Ferox slumped against Zevran, knowing he should probably move to the side, to not crush, but he couldn’t bear to move away, even a by a fraction. “Tell me.”

“Beloved,” face tucking into Ferox’s shoulder, body still shaking, even down to the feet pressed at the backs of Ferox’s knees, and the hands clutching at his head and back. “‘ _Querido_ ’ means ‘beloved’.”

Too tired to lift his head, Ferox rolled his head slightly to kiss whatever was under his cheek. “I like that one...best.”

....

A few loose ends tied up bought more time, brought more vital coin. Even though Orzammar made Ferox tense, it was nothing like the first time. And he was supremely glad he had insisted on going with Zevran, bringing Horse and Leliana as well. Loghain’s diplomat had been far better protected than Ferox was expecting, and the fight was nasty, if brief. No matter that his assassin groused and griped that if it had been just him there would have been no problem, but the Crow’s ‘strategy’ would have taken time. And not a few acts that Ferox wasn’t very approving of. Dagna was the easier matter, dealt with quickly and even tagging along to make any repairs to armour incurred during the quick march to Redcliffe. It took a little sweet-talking, but the young dwarva was convinced to not set off from Redcliffe to Kinloch on her own, and instead waited to be dropped off. 

Eamon had an irritating tendency to talk down to Ferox, one he usually ignored, but when Zevran had probed for further details of Ferelden hierarchy, it had come out. Technically, unless Fergus was ever found alive, improbable as that was, Eamon was a subordinate rather than superior, years in the Landsmeet notwithstanding. Zevran had chuckled and told him that the old man should enjoy it while it lasted, because it wouldn’t be long, because he was sure someone would replace the old bastard with Teagan who actually had a functioning brain at his disposal. At that moment, he had never wanted to kiss the assassin so badly. 

The not-so-Slim Couldry was spoken to with a few coins exchanged almost as soon as they reached Denerim, while Leliana, Wynne and Alistair went to the Chantry to see what else needed doing, or to report matters dealt with. A quick pitstop at several other places yielded small purses filled with coin, which Ferox split with Zevran who secreted much of it away about his person. There was no chance of anyone stealing it from the Crow, while Ferox took the half he carried and buried it in his pack. The Gnawed Noble was crowded as usual, few signs of any banns or arls except those who were already close to Denerim for other reasons. Into a back room Zevran disappeared, then came out to the hall, bidding him to follow for another meeting with ‘that old buzzard’ as his Crow called Ignacio. 

The face to face with Loghain was a let down, a stab in his gut. Zevran had been correct - the great man wasn’t anymore. The shadow he had barely been aware enough to note back at Ostagar had consumed and come to full force over the general. Howe at his shoulder hadn’t even bothered looking at him, as though if he didn’t look, then Ferox wouldn’t be there. When he and Zevran returned to their room, Ferox had spent hours heaving then stormed off to spar, needing to beat at targets. A vain hope that if he demolished the wooden pells then he could also demolish the betrayal and pain. His lover was quiet as he had once been, calming and present. Days of meetings in Eamon’s office and library ground on, until Ferox was nearly numb once again but for the strong arms and hands that would hold him close, the full mouth that would kiss him, struggling to bring him back to the light.

In desperation Ferox went on a job with Zevran and Horse, Wynne brooking no argument and insisting on coming along as well. More history presented itself. Dark haired, swarthy and strong featured, almost jovial, an older human revealed himself, and Zevran had tensed beside Ferox. Taliesin sought to tempt his lover away, but Zevran had only replied, sad and friendly at once, that the man should have stayed in Antiva. The _shemlen_ Crow was the last to fall, an error that even Ferox could see from afar left him open, and Zevran plunged his dagger deep beneath armour. It was almost an embrace as the two went to their knees, sinking majestically as though time had slowed. For a terrifying moment he thought the other would stab Zevran as arms began to move, blades still in hand, but they dropped to the ground. Something was said, unheard even as Ferox rushed forward, inside his mind screaming and roaring like a wild beast. With brusque and detached efficiency Zevran had stripped everything of value from his fellow as though the corpse was of any common bandit. In spite of it, or because of his own need, they pushed on that afternoon, setting the Crow trap behind them as though nothing had happened. But by evening Zevran’s withdrawal hadn’t abated, having something to do with Taliesen’s death and Ferox refusing to accept payment for something that shouldn’t be paid for. 

Requests to come to bed were met with growls, the rare show of anger enough to make Ferox wince. Especially since he was also struggling, but managing anyway - there wasn’t any choice. But Horse paced from Ferox’s side to the Crow’s and back that night, even though they were in separate ends of the estate, as though undecided as to who needed him the most.

How Ferox lasted for three days in that fashion was one of life’s mysteries, but he finally was driven to corner the assassin. Dangerous no matter who one was, deadly for most. No matter what, laying awake, having to keep the fireplace lit and several candles as well - darkness was no longer his friend, something that had to be banished if his sun were not in residence - he could not shake the memory of how the Crow had withstood his anger and his own snarls. How, even when Zevran thought Ferox hated and despised him, he still sought him out. How he struggled to remain steady and supportive, and help cope with the weight of grief and personal loss and tragedy. At the very least there was a debt there that had to be repaid. 

“Horse, take me to him, will you old friend?” rubbing the large head then scritching firmly behind an ear, he knew that the mabari was the only one with a hope of finding an assassin who didn’t wish to be found. 

But the Crow was found with surprising ease, in the library, books before him, piles of them. The light of a single candle pushed back at the night’s darkness, and as he watched, pages were devoured at a phenomenal rate, lips moving along nearly too fast to be real. Ferox had enough sardonic humour left to find that yes, the assassin had been built to be supremely educated. It was no wonder he had such an easy time ‘winning’ arguments. 

Another page was turned, “No sense standing there, _amora._ You might wish to take a seat, instead of outlining yourself in a doorway, hmn?”

“You’re different,” it wasn’t what he had wanted to say and Ferox was sure it came out accusing, as in his breast his heart burned with encroaching frostbite. One of those bartered questions that had been gained was finally asked. “What changed?”

“Sit down, will you? I am not going to attack you, _querido,_ ” it was terse and tired, and his lover looked to have aged a decade. 

Doing as he was bid, Ferox waited. 

“The Crows discourage sentiment, at least until we are old enough that we have been indoctrinated to a point where the House comes first in all things. If they did not allow us some semblance of normalcy, the very expensive tools that we are, would break far too soon to turn the Guild a profit,” the eyes continued to flow over the words in the book, pages turned. “Whores sell the semblance of love, but are not incapable of it. And Crows are not unlike whores, selling our bodies and our semblances for whatever job is available. Any thought that we have that whatever relationships we form with each other, or anyone else, might be meaningful, we are told is nothing but delusions. A lie. Born of a whore, a slave, raised by more whores and then by murderers, forged into what I am... Rinna, Taliesin and I never paid attention to what we had. Or at least I did not. To look at it was to put it at risk... He let me kill him. No pleading. No begging. No gasped out devotions.” 

Fingers spread across the page, trembling slightly as they pressed down on the book. “It was in everything they did. Rinna was the only one strong enough to say it. Taliesin was the only one strong enough to show it. ‘And then there was one’. And I am too weak to say or know or show what I felt. What room is there in me for _love_?” spitting the last word out as though it were a curse. “Do I even know what it is? How can I call you ‘my beloved’, ‘my love’ or ‘my heart’ when I do not know what these things are, or if I even have one in my breast beyond a beating muscle that pumps blood through my veins? How can that be even remotely acceptable to you? I am nothing more than a whore and a murderer, either incapable, or unworthy, of such sentiment.”

If one said, another showed, what was left? To give or receive. And Zevran gave his love freely and without thought. He need not say or show, because the others always knew. While never asking for a single thing for himself, other than to be allowed to continue giving. It was why he couldn’t get the assassin out of his tent...followed him everywhere closer than the hound, had even violated the trust built for the express purpose of lancing a wound that wasn’t physical, and been willing to bear the brunt of Ferox’s anger, just to _give_ some chance of healing. 

“You’re far from incapable of sentiment. You give love. No need to say it, no need to put on a show, you just go and do it. Unasked. Sometimes unwanted. But never unneeded.” Swinging a leg over the arm of the stuffed chair, he would rather not-sleep there in the library than not-sleep in one of the comfortable beds provided in the pressing darkness.

The heel of a palm rubbed at the bronze forehead, “Perhaps. But if I were so good at giving it, then there would have been no jealousy... Yet how could I not give more when she was pregnant with his child? Stupid _shem_ was never as careful as I was...and she was tired of terminating the pregnancies...”

“Hrm. If he was not careful of others, ones supposedly cared for, it sounds like the fault was his.” Plumping a pillow to wedge behind the small of his back, Ferox’s head rested against the high sides meant to hold the heat from the nearby fireplace. “Not that I know anything of the situation or of them. I do know you however.” A sigh. “Zevran, I have not slept, neither has Horse, and neither have you. In rejecting your proffered payment, I am not rejecting you. Both of us need you, and not just for sleep or to open a box or two. I don’t know what tomorrow will bring, but whatever Eamon or Slim or Ignacio have up their sleeves, will require that I not snarl or bite anyone and that you be at your best as well. At this rate, even your excellent skills would suffer. If you are determined to stay here, so will I, if merely to save a faithful hound another trip up the stairs, seeking to reconcile those he loves.”

Amber eyes went to the large mabari who was lying so he could watch them, tiny tufted eyebrows above beady eyes staring mournfully at each of them in turn, head on his paws. The book was slammed closed with a faint sound of disgust, “You are far too heavy to carry like a child in my current state, my friend. Very well, if just to save our backs, to the bed with you both.”

Swinging feet back to the floor, and pulling an interesting book off the shelf, Ferox gesture at the piles, “In case you can’t sleep, bring one or two, I would be happy to growl at Eamon, should he complain.” A quirk of a lip turned into a grin, “Rather looking forward to it actually.” 

In the dimness of the estate on their way up to their room, Ferox caught an arm around Zevran’s waist to pull him closer. Quietly for his ears only, “How could one love someone such as yourself? I ask these same questions about myself. My loss is nothing in comparison, yet I freeze, locking everyone out, hating them. You, on the other hand, welcome those in who need assistance and are open to accepting it. Love is a gift, unearned and undeserved - any man who could not love what you give - one who could not love you - would be a fool.” Shaking his head in the twilight, “I do not care for the trappings, the nationality, age, the label applied, man, elf, dwarf...male or female, the outside does not matter, never has. If you and Wynne, or better yet, you and Oghren switched minds, I’d learn to like magical bosoms or sensitive dwarven digestive tracts.”

The assassin leaned his face into him, some of the tension flowing away. “It is good that no one knows such magics, as I would be disappointed with either body, and am rather attached to the one I currently possess as it grants me the ability to better give to you.”

 

Attaining their room, Ferox puttered, checking his gear and laying out clean clothes, the fatigue creeping up quickly, as though knowing that soon he could sleep and it was seeking to pull him down before he was through. Horse was busy tugging at Zevran’s socks even as the elf was trying to remove his tunic and got them free of brown feet as the tunic was removed. That was nipped from hands as well, then the large hound nabbed Ferox’s own folded dirty tunic and made a nest beside the bed, scooting the laundry around with his nose, circling it several times before landing with a grunt, his little stub wagging when Zevran draped his dirty leggings over the mabari.

“You are as bad as Tigress - she used to steal my sweaty light armour to make a nest beneath the bed,” snorting Zevran stretched out on the bed, hand fisted as he rested his head on it. Gaze flicking up to watch Ferox, “He should have been a rogue, hmn? Excellent at blackmail.” 

Pleased that his armour and tomorrow’s clean necessities were placed precisely, exactly where it should be if he were to wake in the night, dress in the dark, no thought would be required, Ferox had no fear that something would be missing. In a minute, two or three at absolute most, he could be out the door for whatever was needed. Every night this ritual was performed, every time something was removed from his person it was put in its proper place. Once that was done and the candles blown out, the light from the banked fire plenty when the sun was there, he slid between the sheets reaching out to touch the light.

“If it was just me, then I would’ve figured out how to cope,” Ferox pushed an arm beneath the pillow, curling under and around so that he could hook Zevran closer. “But if he wasn’t sleeping and was going back and forth between us, well, you weren’t sleeping either. Couldn’t let that continue.”

Zevran allowed himself to be tugged closer, but didn’t lay his head down, remaining with his head propped in hand. “Ferox...I...still have the earring, if you would wish to still take it as a token of...my lasting affection for you.”

Covering a yawn with a hand, “No payment, Zevran, we’ve been through this. The same has been given to the others. Accept the gift, the only thing you have to decide is what to do with it.”

“You are being difficult, I did not say payment, I said ‘token of my lasting affection,’” a bit of snap to the statement. “It is the first thing I had ever claimed for myself, and to house it I began making my belt from other trophies and gewgaws. But that is too narrow for your waist.”

Focusing, as the argument had changed from last time, no longer running over the same ground, “And its jingle is what warns that you are there before leaping off of me.” Ferox settled into the mattress. “You are here, I do not need anything more, but I would not refuse a gift...a reminder for when you are not here.”

A deep breath was taken, “Good.” Zevran leaned over him, taking the Joining amulet that was around Ferox’s neck to thread a hooped earring with a strange bit of stone dangling from it, into the loop that kept the silver chased vial on the leather thong. “Perhaps at some other time you might allow me to put it in your ear for all to see, but...that...that is up to you, _querido_. I am just proud that you would accept and wear my token, no matter how humble.”

Reaching up to run a finger lightly around an ear, “I am glad you have returned and are pleased. When this is over, one way or another, remind me, as I do not think I would deny you this wish.”

....

Zevran kept it together. Somehow. Every step away from Howe’s estate was one more step away from Ferox. How he wound up barking orders and taking the lead was baffling. Horse and Wynne had looked at him as though he had the answers, while Erlina and the Royal Cunt wrung their hands. As soon as they got near a back alley, Zevran had grabbed Anora’s arm, hauling her back into him and hissed that her ass best be worth it and that if she crossed him again, she would pray for death ten minutes in. Then he had shoved her forward, the pilfered guard’s armour clanking as she stared at him horrified that someone would presume so much.

The longer they waited to make a plan to rescue Ferox from Fort Drakon, the longer he was in the hands of those who would do him harm. And the longer their enemies had to bulk up security. A quick stop to talk to Cesar, another to the flop that Taliesin had occupied, distantly noting that some of Zevran’s clothes had been brought, a favoured knife and a pouch of coin, but no armour, he finished collecting what would be useful. Dosing Erlina would be useless, if she was what he thought she was, it would do no good. However a brief word with Morrigan yielded a dark smile on purple stained lips, their mutual love of concoctions having forged something of a friendship. Also their never making any bones or excuses over what they were, wearing their ‘insults’ proudly, left them as more than allies. 

Keeping himself stealthed sitting in one of the few pools of shadow in Anora’s room as she wrote at her desk, sipping the tea that had been brought to her, he waited. When a hand fluttered to the back of long neck, rubbing it as though overheated and sore, the countdown began. It wouldn’t take long and of course the Queen had no resistance to drugs, poisons possibly - but drugs...no. Mentally tripping the switch that let his body do what it had to, no matter how distasteful, Zevran waited a few moments more as the _shemlen_ rubbed her thighs together impatiently. Her back was to him and she was too distracted to note someone locking the door, or coming up on silent feet, until he lay a hand on her shoulder, rubbing his thumb over the bit of neck that showed.

Startled, offended and angry blue eyes snapped to look up at him, “What are you -”

Conversationally, the anger and dread in his veins lent their weight to his voice, “How long has it been, Anora? Hmn? How long since a man has bothered to touch you?”

“Get out, elf,” it was snapped at him. “I don’t need the service of a knife-eared, foreign whore.”

“Ah, that is right, you already have your own - ah, but where is she?” watching as Anora straightened to try and look around, face flushed and he could smell the arousal that was born from chemicals throbbing at her grey matter as it gathered wetly at her crotch. “But she could not give you what your body is screaming for, no?”

“Leave,” it was a shuddered order, but ignored.

Instead Zevran shifted closer, knee hitching further on the desk, his own ‘arousal’ displayed by the straining of cloth. “You have something I want.” Bending down to run the tip of his nose along the side of her jaw, murmuring huskily, “And I have something you quite clearly want very badly.” Measuring constantly and weighing action and reaction, he nipped at a jewel dangling lobe, teeth sinking in just enough to scrape, “You see, being a Crow as I am, I can decide how much of a...gentleman...I will or will not be. Discretion is a lovely thing, is it not?” Anora shuddered again, sweat beginning to form a sheen on her face, glimmering as lips were licked, hands clutching at her skirts, all of these things were noted and assessed. “Thus far I choose gentleman, as you might be somewhat useful, and flaying you alive might limit that. At least at this moment, hmn? I do not like to take options off of a table until necessary...” 

As he tilted her head to the side with his thumb, hand resting lightly on her throat, inhaling before biting at the pale skin, the Ferelden Queen fought for words, “What - what do you want?”

“Fort Drakon, everything you know about it,” moving to whisper in her ear. “You are the Queen, you and a handful of others at most must know every schematic. You are well-known for such...attention...” with a practiced flick of fingers, stays that kept Anora’s upper-bodice fastened tightly, were released, and he slid a hand in to cup and squeeze at the mound of flesh there, “to details. Now, which interrogation would you prefer? Gentleman?” pressing his mouth to the wet and hungry one that immediately opened to him. Pulling back, he sank teeth deep into the flesh of her lip, making her cry out, jerking, but his hold on her was firm, the taste of blood welling up as he muttered around the trapped bit of flesh, “Or Crow?” 

Even after he straightened, staring down at her upturned face, Anora still thrummed, the response being nothing she could fight. He did not enjoy the manner of coercion, but Zevran was what he was - a Crow. It was easy to go the route he chose, physically at least. Emotionally, it was nearly impossible. All he wanted was to march Anora to Fort Drakon, disembowel her and use her entrails as a noose for any who got in his way. But she was useful, and still a monarch, one who, for the moment, remained necessary. No matter how distasteful the fact of using something for pleasure to subdue another was, he would do it. And he would make sure it was good - it would give her a taste of what his lover was going through that she had _purposefully_ brought about. 

“What do you want to know?” blue eyes locked on his groin hungrily.

Grinning without mirth, Zevran stood, yanking her to bend over the desk, gesturing at the paper and ink, “Start writing and I will start my work, hmn? Fair is fair.”

Zevran tuned out the taste and smell and texture, only paying enough attention to make sure he was getting the results he wanted as he sat in her chair, hoisting her skirt up. The marvellous thing about the drug he had administered was how aroused it could leave someone - while refusing to let them plummet. Unless they had a great deal of practice with it of course. Crows with trouble performing for long periods of time would consume them for the purpose of working better for whatever job they were on and occasionally for recreation. Whores that were valuable and attractive but balky were dosed, as were belligerent consorts and spouses when needed. It wasn’t a hard thing to find if one knew where to look, and Taliesin had most of the components and reagents, as if the composition was altered slightly, it could make a potent poison. Listening to the scrabble of quill interspersed with moaning and the frequent gasp, he thought it likely that the second purpose likely was what Taliesin had planned on using it for, and on Zevran no less. Probably thought it would let him die with a smile on his face. Of course that was ignoring the fact that nearly a whole trunk of Zevran’s clothes had been in evidence, as if he thought it were possible to bring him back to the fold like a wayward horse.

Withdrawing his cock from his trews and slamming home after checking over Anora’s shoulder that good progress - if sloppily written - was made of drawing maps of Fort Drakon’s interior and exterior, he rode her hard. Once he was satisfied that as much information as she had resting between her ears had been drawn up, he wrapped a hand around her throat, yanking her back into him, squeezing off her pleasured moans that were turning to noisy cries, fondling a breast as he growled in her ear. His body, after all, knew its work.

Groaning near her ear, “It is a pity that you might continue to be useful.” The orgasm began and he held himself deep in her sheath, allowing his seed to spill, knowing the insult it would be to someone like her, “Otherwise I would enjoy killing you very much.”

Shoving her to fall to the floor, tucking himself away, Zevran scooped up the papers, as Anora struggled to rise to try and grab for his hips. With his leg he pushed her away, staring down at her like a bug, the same way she looked at everyone she saw in Eamon’s estate, plotting her plots. It was tempting to finish the job, but he refrained. He could always use his fallback plan of torturing her before her father to gain Ferox’s release. 

A human and an elf would have been too obvious, but an elf in messenger’s clothes arriving late in the evening was overlooked after quick questioning. It was nothing to slip into a storage area, one indicated on the map Anora had drawn. Accurately too, much to his dark amusement. The hilt of Finesse was comforting in his hand, her blade sliding into the kidney of a guard as he dragged him back to an alcove. From there he continued, silently picking off those in the front halls, working his way forwards. As soon as he got past the sentry watching the dungeon’s entrance, he snuck around, planting a gas bomb near a fire so that it would rupture as the contents heated, killing those present, and dissipating by the time he had to leave. 

Corpses in various stages of decomposition or even mummification hung throughout the dungeons. Pausing when one caught his eye for some reason, possibly due to the bone structure and size being so similar to Ferox’s, his gaze slid over the coat of arms that matched those on Ferox’s shield, emblazoned in ink on the redheaded corpse’s pectoral. Frowning, he took a moment longer to inspect the body, the signs of prolonged torture heavily written into flesh. Testing the body with his dagger, noting how it sunk in with some leathery resistance, he felt that the young man was perhaps a month or two dead at most. Shaking his head at the waste, he continued onwards in search of his Warden.

Fighting without armour was familiar and comfortable. Decades of wearing little more than triple folded canvas under his clothes, or perhaps featherweight chain, or paper thin leather, allowed him to move with utter silence and inhuman speed. Like a dark ghost he blew through the bowels of the Fort, a swath of death left in his wake. When he found Ferox, his Warden was chained heavily, naked against bare stone. Bruises and lash marks were all over him, the beautiful dark head hanging with defeat. For that alone, Zevran wished to find Loghain and wipe his stain from Thedas, no matter how much Ferox looked up to the man. 

Licking his lips, Zevran got the locks opened, and the eyes that swung up towards him were puffy and black and red, one completely swollen shut. “ _Querido,_ it is I, your Zevran.”

Tongue slid along broken lips, “You’re not supposed to be here. Maker. Zevran. Leave. Escape before they notice you...”

Weak and delusional obviously, Ferox tried to resist his manacles being undone. Zevran had already found Ferox’s armour and gear, but for the moment, what was needed was one of the potent stamina draughts he had raided from the small hoard Taliesin had left. Uncorking it with his teeth he forced Ferox to drink it, wincing at how his lover flinched in his arms, whimpering. 

As what little could be seen of the unclosed eye cleared, “Zevran...?”

“Shh, _amora_ , take a moment to let it finish giving you some strength. Then we _must_ leave,” gingerly cradling him in his arms. Pleading with him quietly, the words slipped past his guard, “Ferox, I love you, please, please do not leave me.”

....

Ferox remembered little of the return to Eamon’s, and most of the time at the Fort had been a long blur of pain and questions about the Orlesians. But he clearly remembered Zevran appearing out of thin air, but he could smell nothing, not even a hint of the sunshine the assassin always smelled of. His face had been too broken to do so. Wynne’s healing had repaired much of the damage, constantly applied poultices, even the few cantrips Morrigan knew, sang in the air around him, the weight of Horse on one side, and Zevran’s warmth at his back, holding him up as he healed. Those things he remembered, though they too, were fuzzy.

Zevran was tender with him, slow and gentle as he bathed Ferox by hand, and his pain was soothed. Groaning as a warm washcloth coasted over his groin, Ferox felt his body stir, long past embarrassment. By now he knew to just ask for what was needed, from food to the chamberpot or a voice telling him stories or another blanket. It was that which made it possible to set aside what had happened, even a little bit. The one other thing he remembered - what was done to him, no matter what it was - was _not Zevran._

“Zevran, please,” still impossibly weak, the torturers’ art had been applied to him and even though the damage was healed, his body had burned through resources to rebuild bone and muscle, but he managed to lay a hand over the Crow’s. “I need you.”

“I am here, _querido,_ ” it was soft, so impossibly soft, yet strong, that voice, those words. “You were not forsaken.”

Sighing with relief at the reassurance, his head dropped back to the pillow, “I know. Please, I still...”

Fingers wrapped around him, squeezing firmly, “Is this what you need?”

“Close to you,” Ferox mumbled. “I need to be close to you. Make this real - not a dream.”

Careful lips touched his thighs as hands spread them, “With my mouth?”

Shaking his head side to side, “You, please.”

Drifting as Zevran prepared him, every touch was a gift, constant and unending, the way only the Antivan knew how to give. It was only Zevran with him, insulting voices receded to nothing, they did not exist. Ferox shuddered at warmed cream covered digits working at him, the lean body stretched beside him radiating in the darkness, guiding him upwards to safety. Lips were on his, imparting the taste that was vital to survival and life, his body tingling from anywhere that was touched, reminding him that yes, he was alive. It was disjointed, one moment there was fingers and Zevran was still partially clothed, the next muscular hips were bare and between his legs, what he knew to be bronze thighs holding him open and in position with a mound of covers shoved beneath his backside. Ferox was boneless, providing no resistance, at least none on purpose, the brief dip of a pierced crown into his relaxing hole was quickly pulled back, before nudging in. Each dip and pull out became longer, until Zevran was gaining ground, and Ferox moaned at the gradual and not truly teasing-tease of the stretching. 

Summoning the strength to wrap his arms around the elf, Ferox allowed himself to be taken care of, to be shown and made love to. The height difference didn’t bother him until then as it would be nice to have his mouth filled with the texture and taste of the sun, however, it was within him and holding him at the same time, but he couldn’t hold it in turn. That aggravated him the most, the weakness that made it hard to give as he was given. It almost hurt that he didn’t have the strength to curl, to lean in, to gain the flavour of light. Giving up, he gave himself to Zevran, wanting the elf to take pleasure in his body, fighting only to hold him as best he could. The steady and constant stroking pushed him higher, bit by bit, the assassin built the warmth, the sun’s rays soaking into his bones, banishing the darkness - there was nothing there, no hands on him other than Zevran’s. Nobody violent with intent to harm, just a healer’s touch that was also a lover’s. Whimpering the elf’s name helplessly, a mouth pressed itself over his heart, tongue licking and lips moving as though it were kissing his mouth. The taste of light wasn’t necessary suddenly, not with that there, not with that small gesture that carried such weight. Unable to help the sob, Ferox climaxed, an ebbing and rising flow, and still the mouth kissed him, giving and giving. Gritting his teeth, Ferox clenched his eyes closed, seeking to banish the way his eyes burned, a hand curling in Zevran’s spilled gold locks, pressing him closer. 

How was it remotely possible for a person to be made entirely of giving? 

The intent in the touch, it bled over, seeped into every nook and cranny. There was no denying it. No wonder Taliesin could kill someone over the thought of losing the chance at such a thing. Zevran’s lunging slowed, easing to a bare shifting, giving Ferox time, rubbing his cheek over his chest, quiet noises meant to soothe made. Long fingers wrapped around Ferox’s length, massaging it firmly, milking the last of his seed out, thumb rubbing and pressing the underside, something he couldn’t help but flex against. Blood began to refill his member under that smooth stroking, causing him to groan, legs twitching as they fought to wrap around Zevran’s but could not. Weight pressed down on his chest as the assassin reached back, tugging a leg higher over his, helping Ferox hook it around the thick thew. It began again, that giving, and when there was a rough groan, Ferox’s eyes flew open, for a brief, blind second, thinking that it was wrong and different, but the steadiness was there, as broad brown shoulders hunched forward, face pressing and panting into Ferox’s side, the pace somehow maintained. But that was a struggle, he could see that it was. 

Stroking an ear with his fingers, rumbling, “Don’t hold back.”

Zevran’s face rolled from one side to the other, mouth open, expression twisted and intense, “Ferox...?”

“Don’t hold back, Zevran,” making his muscles clamp tighter and embracing the thick cock, urging it to explode. He wanted to feel flooded, to feel the evidence of his lover’s want and to give them both relief. “Only for you would I beg. Please.”

The brow furrowed, trying to think obviously, the knowledge was there, then eyes closed, giving in. His thrusting picked up speed and strength from the incredibly slow and sweet, but was not rough at all, the angle of hips changed, so that constant pressure was placed on the hard bundle of nerves, making them both gasp. A ripple arched the dark honey-gold spine with its black shot artwork, muscles standing in relief, and Ferox nearly sighed as he felt thick heat spill. There was a difference in that too, the way arms embraced him tighter, not grabbing, just holding, hanging on. 

Straightening, rocking back, but not away, Zevran ran hands over his chest, the touch almost a massage, and Ferox grabbed a hand with almost obedient fingers, holding it to him, “Don’t stop. Not until you’re finished.” How long and how many times didn’t matter, only that his sun was with him. 

Afterwards, sweaty and exhausted, Zevran had pulled away, pressing his lips once to every available patch of skin, going so far as to help Ferox roll over. There was no thought of tensing, the sun’s warmth could never, ever, be mistaken for anything than what it was, under any circumstance. There was a pair of weak and amused laughs as they both realized that a bath would be necessary rather than just a simple wash from a bucket of warm water.

A tub was called for and Zevran took out the well used vials of firerock that were uncorked any time warmth was needed. They were long since modified so that strips of leather with weights on the end to make it so they could be pulled free easily from a bucket, a mug, pot or in this case, a tub. Zevran helped Ferox into the tub, sinking in with him and both soaked until feet were pruned. Another vial had been added at some point, a few drops from it, then a larger vial was emptied of the last of its contents. Oil spread over the steaming surface of the water, a combination that Ferox couldn’t identify beyond it smelling much like Zevran did when freshly bathed.

Leaning back against the rest, draping an arm around the elf’s middle, “Other than you, what have I missed?”

“There were Tevinter slavers in the Alienage, letters signed from Loghain giving them permission to... _procure_ merchandise.” Nimble fingers rubbed the spaces between Ferox’s knuckles, “Many elves have already been shipped and are...not likely to ever be seen on these shores again.”

“It gets more and more difficult to see the sense in this...the reasoning he is using. Loghain is not like this.”

“Perhaps,” there was reserve in Zevran’s tone. 

“Howe was the Arl of Denerim, you would think that after obtaining Highever, he would be done...this must have been his doing. Remember the elf...Soris?” Although he could see the young man’s face, frankly Ferox was guessing at the name.

“Was put there by Vaughn Uriel,” Zevran said. “And once his father died at Ostagar, someone must have locked him away for whatever reason.”

“But they both were in the _Arl’s_ estate... _Howe’s_ estate,” pointed out reasonably. 

The assassin shifted onto his side between Ferox’s legs, wrapping one around his. “It _became_ Howe’s estate, _querido_ , along with any prisoners Vaughn had cooped up in there. No doubt Howe usurped Vaughn, saying he was dead, killed by elves, or brigands, or dead with grief, or whatever reason - it matters very little. Vaughn had...invited himself to a wedding in the Alienage, there was a scene, and he and some friends kidnapped many females, including two brides. Soris and the other groom stormed the estate, seeking to reclaim what was not Vaughn’s. One died, and many guards as well. How easy would it be to claim that Vaughn died in this attack, _amora_? Extremely.”

“Crack down on the Alienage and deport the inhabitants... Still sounds like Howe’s doing.”

Zevran protested, heaving a deep sigh, “No, it sounds like a noble who is seeking a ‘quiet’ way of doing justice to those who killed a noble. While still being pragmatic enough to know that actively and obviously killing the lot would cause unrest. So, why not turn a profit and make these killers of nobles pay? It is far too logical. It is the sort of justice extracted when open justice cannot be taken. Instigated by Howe, oh yes, locking away Vaughn and framing the elves? Yes. But the decision of what to _do_ with them...? No. I know he is your hero, but I have known a great deal of good men and a great deal of bad men. I will tell you this - there is nothing more dangerous than a man with convictions. Because he is always right and capable of _anything_.”

Rubbing both eye sockets at once, Ferox made a very frustrated, “Arrugh! I don’t know anymore. But I’d like to hear the reasoning before kicking him off a Tower, chopping off his head, or ramming a sword through his side. I think Anora is lying when she opens her mouth, but some things ring true too. Maker, I just want to end this stupid Blight, not play with Queens, Kings, werewolves and mages.”

“Loghain had a crown for himself made,” Zevran’s lips pursed before kissing Ferox’s arm. “However it has...gone missing, hmn?”

“I did not sign up for this, frell, I didn’t _even_ sign up for  this.” Ferox tugged on the amulet around his neck.

“Nor do we choose to be born, _amora._ We do not choose our family, our station, whether we kill our mothers while being birthed, or whether we are sold like cattle. What we _can_ choose is how to live with it, how to react, how to make it work rather than hinder,” rolling over in the tub, the Crow gently pressed the amulet back down to his chest. “Warden, noble, man, Cousland, slave, Crow, warrior, rogue...what is the choice in any of these? Perspective. That is all. To be angry with it, or to find a way to your _own_ sense of self. Tell me, if your family had been left untouched, and the Blight happened, and this Duncan came, requesting and calling for those who could fight to Join - would you have left them without your skills? Your people to be devoured as you only protected your own areas?”

Ferox had considered this, hadn’t liked that Rory wanted to go, had figured, hoped, that it would only be for a short time. “He came for Rory. I was to be left alone...left behind to care for the land.”

“He came for Rory, but then, no one _knew_ it was a Blight. And honestly, would you have let Rory go without you if you had half a chance? To put himself in harms way, fighting for the country and its people? The people _are_ the land. A nation is not squares and plots, _amora_ , it is only a noble’s thinking if that is the thought in your head,” gold eyes searched him deeply. “But it is not the truth - soil may give and house, but if there are no people, what is there of a nation? Nothing. If you had had a chance, if Duncan had asked, and the holdings could be watched over by a likely very capable teyrna, would you have denied the nation your skills? Would you have denied Rory yourself at his side, protecting his flank?”

“That’s the point.” He nearly rubbed his eyes again, “Duncan didn’t ask. There was no choice.”

“I would not have asked either frankly - allow an entire noble bloodline to be slaughtered, gain no Warden recruit, he made the only decision he could. I know you, _querido_ , you would have stayed, and you would have been slaughtered like everyone else. If it was the only way that _something_ could be saved - I would have taken it. Perhaps it is a pragmatic peasant’s thought to not stand on honour and this or that choice rather than the cold fact of what I knew was coming, even if no one else believed.” It was earnest, “He saved you, whether you wanted it or not, whether you had a choice or not. And you have saved not just myself, but many others, and will save even more. It does not make anything right or correct, but life is not always fair, it does not always give us a choice on a neat invitation served on a silver platter. We have to make and take what choices we can for ourselves, when we can. Hate him all you wish, but I cannot be anything but grateful he dragged you away from foolish honour that would have dictated you lose the battle, and your life, needlessly.” His voice lowered, “You forgave me for something I did that took away your choice, something I did that was to try and help you, and not just myself, even if it did help me in some way. Perhaps one day you can forgive him also.” 

Firmly, “And so I will hear Loghain out.”

“I did not say to not hear him out, _amora._ But it is interesting that two men whose actions have wound up affecting so very many receive such diametrically opposite reactions from you.” A slim finger touched him, “By Duncan’s actions, you survived, and have saved hundreds at least, if not many thousands, will save a nation, if not many nations. Yet you revile him. Loghain, who has sold off portions of his populace, caused a civil war, had you _tortured_ , locked his own daughter away, and has sanctioned ‘any means necessary’ tactics upon his fellow nobles...”

Hearing the hint of anger in his own voice, Ferox tried to moderate his tone, “Duncan didn’t stick around for questioning after being drug off the battlefield. You didn’t see him kill a recruit who hesitated to drink; it was drink or die. I did see the army quit Ostagar, but I did not see Loghain at the Fort. Howe could have been responsible for the slavers and Anora, who I don’t trust and has given me the dirty eye since I first met her as a child, she was at Howe’s estate. The one thing that really bothers me is Cauthrien, who was also at the estate...she is Loghain’s, without question.”

“Any means necessary takes many forms, _querido._ The difference is, is one is a hero of yours and one made you grow up.” Zevran looked away from him. “Howe was _dead_ when you were captured. And Howe may have instigated, but are you trying to tell me that Howe did everything wrong, that every single vile action taken at Loghain’s order was truly from Howe’s lips instead? No. _Amora_ , if we continue this line of conversation I will become unreasonable. While I pray I am wrong and you are right, I do not have the luxury of such naivete, as it has been stripped away by nearly twice as many years as you have walked this land.”

“Not naivete.” A deep sigh, riddled with dread, “Hope. Hope that the nightmare isn’t real, even with a sickening feeling that it is all very horribly real.”

His lover hung his head, “As you say then, I will keep my words on it to myself. Just do not expect me to believe anything he utters either.”

Changing the subject, “I either need to put some clothes on eventually or you need to do something for me.”

Zevran rolled around once more in the tub, limbs lightly slick and the water sloshing, “No clothes for you as you are going to be put back to bed, but what is your desire, _amora_? For you I can be easily convinced to do many things. Including darning your socks.”

“That sounds promising... Wait. What? Darning my socks?”

“They had holes,” shrugging. “It is simple - you take the loops and add new yarn, it is called darning in Common. Just do not tell Wynne, Leliana _or_ Alistair - especially not him - that I can do that, otherwise I would have piles and piles of filthy, holey, disgusting socks to fix. Especially since Wynne will announce that she is no longer fixing holey garments. Oh, and your smalls had a frayed end so that is fixed also... Although Leliana’s knickers might not be an unpleasant repair...”

“What?! Wait a minute. No, I’m not going to ask that. My mother would have liked you. Sewing, it’s part of taking care of your gear. Unfortunately, my heel repairs are always lacking...much easier with a block.” Remembering what he was going to ask, “Umm, but what I really need is a lie.”

A brow arched very high, nearly to the hairline, and at the corners, full lips tightened, in an odd purse of vague incredulity. “A lie? And also, if you were supposed to know how to - it seemed nearly every night while you were on watch I had at least four new tears that needed mending...”

“No heel block, I told you. Anyway, Eamon came by, which is why I knew about the Alienage. Tell Anora that we will support her bid...well, her continued bid for the throne. Nobody’s going to put Alistair forward, not singly, not as a pair, just her.”

“There will still be problems - tell her that if she and Alistair marry, it will give her claim better legitimacy, and she will have a hero for a husband, and someone who is not going to stray, _and_ who will do whatever he is told. She need not know that no such thing is intended,” shrugging. 

“Eamon says she can’t stand him, frankly, I don’t think she can stand anyone. Whatever works, but I’m guessing, she doesn’t want anybody looking over her shoulder. Even as a kid she could do everything on her own, didn’t need help.”

His lover grunted, “She can if you know how to approach her, hmn? She may not _want_ , but she still is a politician. Alistair’s presence will give her monarchy a stronger footing. Besides, she cannot do everything on her own - she requires an heir. One with Theirin or some other old family connections would be best. Even yourself. But as I _said_ , it is to be a lie, and to make it look like we still wish something - she would be suspicious if told that no one else wished for power, _amora_. It is a peculiar thing about people in power - they think everyone wants to take theirs. This way, she will think that she can double-cross us, that she has outsmarted us, as all of us are ‘too stupid’ to think without Eamon holding our hands, and that he is ‘too old’ to think clearly.”

“Fine, put me forward if necessary, because I’ll not have Alistair r-u-n-n-o-f-t to hide under his bed, should word get back that we’ve suggested that he marry Anora. It’s going to be bad enough when he hears the truth of it.”

“Mph, you might also wish to say that you are going to put me aside, else she might be...displeased. I believe she and I got off on the wrong footing,” there was an almost maliciously pleased glint in his eye.

“And here I thought you were going to lie for me while I lazed around in bed. Does this mean I can skip down to the library for a new book too?”

“Ah, in that case, yes, I should go and do it, even better,” a flash of teeth. 

“I wouldn’t put you aside, even if she were the last woman in Ferelden, and we were the last two men. There is something wrong with her,” a near shudder. “Damaged goods that somehow causes the hair on the back of my neck to stand up, and what that thing is, is not something I wish to spend any thought on.”

A nipple quickly kissed, then his lips, “Then do not. I will deal with her. Meanwhile, let me enjoy your splendid state by giving you a massage and us eating some of that meat and cheese brought by Morrigan so thoughtfully earlier...and then - a nap. I am in need of being ah...the phrase sounds odd in Common - but, on you like white on rice.” He paused, “Rice is white, _amora._

Ferox gave a rumbled laugh, “I think you already achieved that today. As I do not believe you could have gotten any closer.”

Zevran let out one of those purring little growls, nuzzling at Ferox’s neck, inhaling deeply, “I am greedy and wish more. Particularly if I have to deal with that frigid cunt again.”

Curiosity, “What do you mean, ‘again’?”

“I had to haul her off from Howe’s estate,” shrugging as he cuddled closer. “I also had to gain information on Fort Drakon, so that you need not spend a single second longer there than I could prevent... Two and a half days was plenty long enough for you to be in captivity. However, when I left, she was rather displeased with my leave-taking as I was in a rush to do far more important things than exchange further pleasantries. To say that I relish politely sticking it to her as Oghren would say, is to put it mildly. If she had stepped forward rather than watch with those calculating eyes - mph. You would not have suffered. So, since I cannot take my pound of flesh, I will take a nibble, yes?”

Something was not right about what Zevran had just said, but Ferox had already more than burned up his little energy for the day and that was before trying to argue with the ever reasonable assassin, all the while trying to remember that Anora needed to be misled - no, not misled, lied to - reminding himself to call it what it was. Wrinkling his forehead, not quite unlike the mabari, “If I just pretend to understand and nod knowingly, will you pat me on the head and let it go by...or in the alternative, help me get my pruned self out of this tub?”

“Mmn, but of course, _amora_ ,” said with a warm smile, that cutting edge gleam gone, replaced by security and care. 

....

The day of Landsmeet finally arrived, Ferox was well prepared to stand on his own two feet, for a time, but fighting was out of the question. The anger and fury at his weakness had him wrapped in a layer of snow... Mostly he was silent, but when answers were given or questions asked, his voice was crisp with frost on autumn leaves. As he dressed, Ferox considered the pieces on the chessboard.

When they first arrived in Denerim, they had located a house which Alistair thought he remembered as belonging to his sister. To his surprise and excitement, Goldanna was still living there...but the reunion did not go as planned. Afterwards, Ferox had told the disappointed Alistair, “Everyone is out for themselves. You should learn that.” And an innocent Warden had changed, hardened somehow. Ferox couldn’t believe that despite everything, Duncan’s death, Isolde lying, Eamon’s patronizing, finding Cailan on the bridge, Connor and the Demon most especially, none of that had affected Alistair...but a simple comment pointing out the obvious, had strengthened the young man’s backbone. It just goes to show, one never knows the turning point for children and the weak.

Perhaps he would not be so surprised about the situation he would soon find himself in then. Zevran and a dresser brought Alistair Cailan’s newly restored and polished armour. Ferox assumed from the yelling that had come from the other room that Alistair was less than pleased, after all, no one had worn that armour because they knew how it would look. Ferox did not point out that it was also presumptuous to use the sword, even without its shield, as it was a link to his missing father, instead of a brother, who likely did not know him. Alistair did not think anything more of it...or at least he didn’t question it, which was essentially the same thing as he always talked aloud, revealing his thoughts whether the listener wanted to hear them or not. As a boy, Ferox would have enjoyed the young Warden’s company, but right now, he was a chess piece that needed to take his place. 

Anora was preening in front of the mirror, by all reports, Erlina twisting her hair into intricate and ornate braids. She had been lulled into believing that he, Ferox A. Cousland was falling all over himself in his long suppressed desire to be her Prince Consort. He would rather have a sword through his heart, rather step into a hole in the ground that opened over the Deep Trenches, rather negotiate a trade deal with Bhelen holding only a rock and two sheep, rather kiss a werewolf...the one with big ears and really big teeth and bad breath...before _ever_ touching that woman. He would likely use a rusty fork to scoop out his eyes and saw off his genitals than have to see, or touch, her nude, which, if he _had_ wanted to be Consort - he would have to do.

Leliana and Zevran spent time in the tavern with the nobles who had gathered there, swaying those who could be moved, doing favours for those who needed a show of faith, a little gift here, a little push there, information gathering, even the Chantry could be used to assist their cause. All in all, the pieces that could be manipulated and placed to the greatest benefit to the cause of stability, and thus the cause of defeating the Blight - had been put where they were needed. 

Under his assassin’s orders, Ferox had rested until he grew tired of his shape pressed into the mattress and changed sides. Read until he woke up hours later after only a paragraph or two. Laying awake staring at the ceiling, he couldn’t imagine going into the Landsmeet without his father, he and Fergus would alternate who accompanied Father, learning the business of politics and their place in Thedas. Ferox would not be going in as a teryn or the proxy of a teryn, he was a Grey Warden with no place there, no vote, no real voice other than a petitioner come before the crown. 

Whispering to the ceiling, “Maker, I never wanted this. I knew my place, I knew what was intended for me...some minor position supporting Fergus. That’s what the trial of running the terynir was supposed to be, before everything got all frelled up.”

His long hair tightly braided, dressing in a set of leathers, ones he could actually wear all day without tiring too much, Ferox looked at the heavy dragon plate and wished they had left Anora to Howe’s tender mercies. He didn’t believe for a second that she was in danger. Perhaps of having to marry the old coot Howe... Was his wife dead or did she just up and r-u-n-n-o-f-t? Wouldn’t blame her if she did. If they hadn’t gone there, Ferox would still be wearing the beautiful armour he could almost dance in, wear the massive Starfang on his back, large and impressive, looking as if nothing could hurt him. Instead he went, despite the urging in his gut to turn away, gone to something he would do nearly anything to forget ever happened...horrible things that Zevran tried day by day, moment by moment, touch by touch, to ease or erase.

Hating his condition, briefly Ferox considered walking away, right now, just grabbing his rucksack, leaving behind what would tire him within a mile or two only taking the leathers on his back and the light family sword at his side. But it was an idle daydream, as idle as Zevran’s imaginary plantation, the orchard with peaches, apricots, almonds, olive trees, oranges, sheep and goats grazing underneath. A pond with fish, a pig or two, a shade tree, a covered porch for napping or visiting while sipping cold glasses of mint tea...all pretend. It was just a story they told themselves, just so the pair of them could complete daily tasks of taking out the trash, killing and interrogating bandits, surviving to the night where another piece was added to the story, a small detail of a copper weather vane or a door painted turquoise. Then wake up and do it all again.

To have to question Loghain on his reasoning, to have asked Zevran, who had a very distant and frightening look in his eye, to stay his hand until the answers had been received and considered... It all hinged on today, the throne, the army, the general, the civil war, all of this would supposedly help end the Blight. Buckling his boots, Ferox left his cloak, the extra weight would only tire him quicker and it was going to be a close thing to get through the day as it was, especially with the added walk. It was still too soon, and at the same time, too late. Sitting back on the bed, he longed to return, to pull the covers over his head, to call this day over, but he waited for Zevran to return as promised, his assassin was gathering and organized the pieces according to the plan.

His lover entered, a tray in hand with what was clearly a meal for two, and an odd teapot, “I prevailed upon the old buzzard to lend me something to fortify ourselves, hmn?” The tray was set down with a click and his assassin insisted on helping him to a chair, “ _Amora_ , please, the day will be long and hard, and I will have few opportunities to hold you.”

Getting comfortable, Ferox accepted the elf’s assistance, but stopped him long enough to get the taste of sunlight he needed first. “Well, what is it?”

“It is good, that is what it is,” graceful hands poured a thick brackish coloured tea from the pot, to which milk was quickly added to and brown crystals stirred in. The cup was passed to him, “I find that taking pleasure in something small like this can help get through the bitter, _amora._ A taste of my homeland to bring us a blast of true sunshine compared to what is here.”

Ferox didn’t say anything, though he wished to counter, to say that a cup of tea was nothing compared to his light. Instead he took a sip, surprised at how thick and sweet it was, having to pause as a pleased chuckle came along with Zevran hitching a leg on Ferox’s armrest. The meal was short, but the taste of thick and strangely dark coffee _did_ fortify him. Either that or it was the contented, nearly meditative quality Zevran exuded as he took long sips, refilling their cups as they emptied. He remembered Oriana once or twice when she and Fergus had first been married, lamenting the prohibitive cost of coffee in Ferelden if it could even be found, let alone of a ‘decent’ quality. Ferox hadn’t understood the draw, having tasted the Orlesian dark and bitter brew during one of the trips to the west. However, the fragrant tasting drink Zevran served was an animal of a different breed entirely. 

Beside him, the assassin’s armour whispered and the harness jingled faintly with each step, like a cat with a bell collar, the slap of the leather skirt against thighs a steady counterpoint. It was something to focus on, making himself follow that pace, concentrating on forcing each step to be taken in sync with the Crow. And suddenly they were hiking up the stairs to the palace, to the loud sound of the Landsmeet arguing as they travelled down the hall. Cauthrien stopped them, it would have been easy to rouse her to attack, but the defeated look when she said Loghain had changed - that someone who had been close to and worshipped the old general... It chilled Ferox to the bone.

Zevran laughed when Ferox chose him as the one to fight Loghain, the irony not lost on either of them at the choice. The entire time, Ferox wished that he had been fit enough to face the Ferelden general, to not have sent his lover forth against such a large opponent. But they both knew logically that Zevran was the one who stood a chance while being able to inflict great wounds, and yet would be able to hold back from killing Loghain - so long as he kept his rare to rouse temper. Ferox warned Zevran, with a kiss to the scarred lip, to be careful before they left Eamon’s estate. Alistair or Sten would have no compunction for self-control. Sten would view it as survival of the fittest, Alistair had a grudge. Palms sweating while he stared forward coldly as Zevran circled with Loghain, left, then right, a dance as regal as any courtly measure, the first strikes, testing, probing. The shield slammed forward clipping the jutting chin. When that happened, the laughter that rang out was almost joyous, sending Ferox through the roof - his lover had done it on purpose. After that was a mad whirling dervish of action, action that there was no hope Loghain could keep up with. Armoured legs were swept out from the floor, sending the great man landing ingloriously with a clatter. But Zevran danced back, nearly hopping in place, taunting without words, while ‘politely’ giving Loghain time to regain his feet. And so it went, until finally, the shield with Gwaren’s coat of arms emblazoned on it had been split and tossed aside, what little Ferox could see of Zevran’s bloodied smile was feral. Shoulder and head lowered like a bull readying to charge, there was no way possible that someone as slim and slight, no matter how muscular, could topple a charging man with nearly six inches and easily a hundred pounds of muscle, another forty of armour, to fall. With an odd flick, Zevran sank down lower just before impact, his shoulder hooking in the juncture of thigh and groin, hoisting Loghain and throwing him over his back, a last kick delivered in reverse making him sprawl on his back like a turtle.

With a whirl, the Crow was on him, too fast for Ferox to call a halt as Loghain yielded, his sword darting forward full force, only to stop right before slamming into a neck, sharp tip digging in just enough to make blood spill as Loghain stared up, utter defeat on his face, and Zevran intoned, “I accept.”

“I choose Alistair Theirin to be the King of Ferelden.” The glare from Anora could have cut steel, thankfully the blow slid off his shoulders to Zevran to gut him for his lie, but the smile was in place and it was far from sardonic - almost inviting. “Lock Anora in the Tower in case none us survive and a leader is still needed.” Alistair was shocked to say the least, he should have seen it coming, just from the armour he was wearing that day, but those who knew him, traveled with him for these nearly two years, knew the young Warden was surprised.

When it came to the issue of Loghain, Riordan stepped forward to make a plea for the general’s life, to make him a Warden. The quiet man didn’t say much, but the urging that something more important was at stake rang in his voice. There was an odd pleading for understanding in that gaze, urging him to do more than what many would consider a deserved sentence. Ferox wasn’t the sort to not listen to such a thing if it could be helped.

Ferox looked at his former hero. Quietly, but firmly so all in the grand hall could hear, he announced, “Loghain will seek redemption by taking the Joining.” At the roar of the nobility and the look on Alistair’s enraged face, he held up a hand, “The question isn’t ‘What has Loghain done?’ as many who deserve death have not died, and many who deserve life are no longer living. My purpose is not to be the judge of the good and the evil and to dispense justice as I see fit. My purpose now is to save this land and these people from the Blight. If I could do this by stepping off a tower, this minute, I would be climbing the stairs right now. If the price to save Ferelden is to make the most evil amongst us a hero and to be adored by the people, I will gladly do that. I will not sacrifice any assets that we need to kill the Archdemon to satisfy my sense of honour. Let us use every weapon at our disposal to defeat the Blight. Only a fool fights in a burning house. Any action we take now that is not against the Blight, is part of an agenda for another day. We can settle our differences later.”

“If Loghain can kill three darkspawn before they kill him, then killing him here is a waste. For me, the question of whether or not Loghain lives or dies depends on whether or not he will fight, and will an army, that this general knows far better than his own child, be useful in holding back a raging river of darkspawn. Absolutely. Every person we kill now, is one less to hold back the darkness. Anyone that agrees to fight the darkspawn, fights shoulder to shoulder with me.”

Alistair was furious and after sputtering his anger and renouncing the Wardens - but not the crown - stormed out to sulk. Alistair the pawn had become Alistair the soon to be King. His piece was in place and there were no further moves necessary. 

Zevran said nothing, as though some part of him had expected the action and taken whatever pound of flesh he could excise while he could, but the blankness in his poured honey eyes wasn’t good.

Pulling Loghain to his feet, Ferox called out, “The civil war ends here. It is time for us to stand together against the darkness.”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Today's posting commences for the Zevathon! Graciously and speedily beta'd by Adachi! THANK YOU SOO MUCH!!

It was the road again, an army moving so slow, like a lumbering caterpillar. At least the accommodations were better. However, Ferox almost missed the little tent that he and Zevran had shared so long. It was still rolled up, carried in Bodhan’s cart, along with the rest of the companions’ gear. A larger folding camp cot fit him and Zevran, but the elf complained that it was ‘barely sturdy enough to roll over in’, let alone find any sort of intimacy. Not that it stopped either of them. Ferox had expected his lover to be angry, to complain, to do or say _something_ about the fact that Loghain was a Warden now, that he was present at meal times, that he had to spend days with the general in their company. 

 

But there was nothing.

 

Zevran engaged Loghain in conversation. Only once was it remotely cutting, about reporting that he had failed the contract, to which there was a nearly regal ‘I see that. Thank you for informing me.’ The others were far more reserved and even less welcoming, excluding Horse, who knew that there was a bit of jerky in the general’s pocket with his name on it, if he was polite. In the unguarded moments between the old man and the mabari, Ferox saw his hero, saw a man, not the monster that had done unspeakable things for no logic that Ferox could understand. When asked, Loghain had said that the ‘Orlesians were coming’ because they had always been angry over losing Ferelden and her resources. While the latter was true, Ferox doubted that Orlais would want anything to do with Ferelden until _after_ they were weakened with the Blight. The Orlesians would come with a Warden led army to pass through, end the Blight, and never leave. That civil war would have only _sped up_ that process seemed to have escaped Loghain’s notice. 

 

“What is it, _amora_?” what had once been the thigh bone of some animal was in hand and being whittled slowly. 

 

“I expected more...” searching for the words.

 

A brow rose, “More what? Dinner? Coffee? The last bag I begged is supposed to be for celebration... But I have some tea from Seheron, if you should like more of that.”

 

“Loghain,” waving a hand at Zevran. “I expected more out of you about his presence. At least some snide comments disguised as humour. Something.”

 

“I detest his obsessiveness. I view him as appallingly weak and insufficient - a disgusting father breeding and ‘raising’ a feral bitch in heat, a horrid friend who allowed the son of his king, and supposedly the person closest to him in all of Thedas, to die foolishly. And then to seek to kill the other son. His short sightedness has led to extreme suffering, several noble families completely wiped out, one almost wiped out, including his own, so make that _two_ ,” Zevran’s words were without malice or heat, just completely conversational calm, as though discussing dinner. 

 

And the speech continued, but Ferox had asked for it, “He ordered that you be tortured to gain information on the Orlesians - and use any means necessary, it was on the missive in the captain’s office. _Do not_ seek to hand me an excuse of Howe being the mastermind of everything and leaving your hero in the dark. Either he is a man who can think and plan for himself, or he is nothing but a bumbling buffoon with not the brain matter to rub together to figure out how to pick his own bloody nose. He was set to hand over your family’s titles to Howe, as well as the arling of Denerim, when there was no logical reason to do so. And he _knew_ that Howe had killed the Couslands. One of your vassals’ corpses was in Fort Drakon, and just because he was not there for the torturing, does not mean he did not go in and inspect the goings on. He is far too meticulous to leave such things without at least a thorough looking over.”

 

Zevran blew slivers and bits of dust from the bone, gaze focused on it, “I would _love_ nothing more than to peel layers of fat back from his abdomen, stake him over an anthill and smear him with honey, and make sure he gets enough water and stamina droughts to remain alive for a _very, very long time_. And that of course would be _after_ I had used more traditional methods on him first. However - none of those things will happen outside the confines of my own mind, and saying them unbidden would only upset you further, nor would I punish you or take my anger or disappointment out on you - I knew that if there was some way to use him, you would do so, and the negative feelings of yourself and others would be ignored. At the least, he is senile, which is what I tell myself when I have to pass him some item of food or drink.”

 

Drawing a deep breath, Ferox tried to process the deluge. There was a great deal there, and a great deal of it was very well thought out. It was, as usual, entirely reasonable. Rubbing his forehead, he set another batch of tea to steep.

 

Pausing mid-pour, something struck him. “Wait - one of my vassals?”

 

“Hmn, yes, Cousland laurel tattooed - sloppily I might add - into his chest, red hair, blue-ish grey eyes, quite dead,” soft scraping and off-handed.

 

Ferox thought he was going to be ill. “Dear Maker. _Rory_.”

 

Suddenly there was warm hands on him, keeping Ferox upright, the kettle however slipped from his hands clattering to the rug covered pavilion floor, hot water spilling over socked feet, but Ferox barely felt it. “ _Amora_ , he...I am sorry, I did not know. But he was dead a very long time. Half those in the dungeons were mummies,” the sun was trying to push back the darkness, its arms tight around him. “He was near one of the hot rooms, where it appeared as though they denied water to those on the walls, so that the new ‘guests’ in cells could see those who had gone before to make them despair. Dehydration does not take long to cause death. Quicker if one is injured. He did not suffer long, _amora._ You could not have saved him. From what I saw, it is likely he was not even aware of what was going on, _querido._ There was nothing left to rescue.”

 

“I didn’t go back to Highever to check, and didn’t look for his body, didn’t go to Amaranthine, didn’t look, didn’t think to look, not anywhere. There is no worse thing than to forget one’s duty and care to another,” horrified at his abandonment of one he had supposedly loved.

 

“You were in shock, my beloved,” a hand cradled his head, tucking it into a bronze neck that was blurry with what was unshed. “With your family dead, why would you think that he would not go down fighting as well? He likely tried to do just that, _amora._ In your mind he died just as surely as the other members of your household. You were mad with grief, such things - they blot all else out. No matter how strongly your honour and duty drive you, when the madness of grief envelopes someone so totally, not even those things can break through. Nothing can, except time.” The world spun and swooped, guided to sit on the floor, dragged between legs as the elf sat on the camp chair Ferox was no longer sitting in, embracing him tightly, “There was nothing left to save in your mind, the very belief in his death, as well as theirs, drove you to the point where considering otherwise was impossible. You were grieving too deeply to look outside, to even know. _That is not your fault._ It could not be helped, you are but a man, _amora._ You are not infallible, you are not so calculating and impervious that you could sit back and think of every permutation for anything at any given time. And if you were, you would never care about anything or anyone, not yourself, not him, not your family. You would see no purpose to anything, no good or bad or neutral. You would be dead, yet walking. And no one who loves you would wish that, or blame you for being mortal.”

 

Words reaching down into the hole he unexpectedly fallen into, Ferox dispassionately considered this trap. Who would have expected one where they had placed the tent? Was this pit placed under one of the carpets? And how much of his weight could the rope take - how could he be sure it would actually lead him towards the light in the far off distance?

 

Muttering, “I have said that I will not sacrifice any assets that we need to kill the Archdemon to satisfy my sense of honour,” he was still going to be sick. When children were fighting, one of them had to stop hitting the other. Someone will always have the last blow; Ferox bore the last one and now again, he was feeling the fresh bruising of one given long before. “No eye for an eye, the army still needs its general.” Another gasped breath fought against the sorrow that threatened to swamp him, “It is another wrong to address afterwards. Not now, please not now.”

 

“Shh, I know,” lips pressed to his hairline, golden voice warm, desperately trying to draw him back to safety. “I know, that is why I do nothing, why I am not even impolite. Please, _mi precioso corizon ,_ hang on to me, do not retreat, we will last.”

 

“Zevran, I _didn’t_ sign up for  this.” Ferox yanked hard at the amulet, the millstone around his neck, the chain bruising the flesh of his neck. “And I will bear this as well.” Knowing he could not lash out, knowing that yet again a hand must be stayed, knowing that there would come a breaking point, agony in every word, “What is one more small thing?”

 

“How may I help, _querido_ , please let me bear it with you,” voice trying to pluck at the newly formed cracks to seep in. 

 

The sun fell silent, firmly prying Ferox’s fingers from the Joining amulet and pressing it back to its customary place gently. For a brief moment it was almost like the sun was inside him, doing more than plucking at the edges, but seeping deep inside with that motion. But it was so very brief, just a whisper that faded away as he hung on for dear life. It was the Deep Roads again, the only thing to do was to survive. Eyes clenched, his mouth sought out the blazing orb that could keep him alive, even as the hounds of the Black City were snapping in the dark, seeking to rip him to shreds and drag him down into the deep stone-dark with the singing voice raping his mind, held back only by the light. Truly, what was one more insignificant thing?

 

....

 

Ferox lasted, he fought with Loghain beside him, he refused the snap of cold to control him. Nothing changed, except the hero was reduced in his eyes to barely a man, even if that was ‘just’ his personal feelings speaking. They attained Redcliffe with incident, large packs of darkspawn were everywhere and groups of the army would have to hunt them down. All the while the nightsong was getting louder. Ferox had taken to keeping several camp lanterns lit all night, clutching himself to Zevran, curled into a tight ball, seeking to present the smallest target, as the elf talked him to sleep after tender or wild intimate embraces. Silverite bands made of molten gold and light and sweetly spiced foreign honey held him in turn, covering those targets and vulnerabilities like armour, keeping his mind, soul and body safe as nothing else could. 

 

The town was nearly overrun, the castle hard pressed to house and protect the townsfolk, but the army relieved the stress, ending the current threats. But the song was so loud, it almost was coming from everywhere, even in long keening strands during the day, but some part of him told Ferox that no, the Archdemon was not there in Redcliffe. Riordan confirmed it, with words that no one wanted to hear. In the evening, still bloodied and weary from reclaiming Redcliffe, Loghain beside him, a burden that Ferox truly just wished to be shut of, they met with the long established Warden to hear more things that were likely unwanted.

 

“Nothing you have done has prepared you for what you face now.” 

 

Loghain was immovable stone with voice, “The Archdemon will fall, the combined forces will end the Blight, we just have to corner the beast.”

 

To Loghain, “If that were all, then any skilled warrior would suffice to land the blows.” He shook his head, looking at Ferox, “But cornering it with our forces will help, but tell me, Lord Cousland, did Duncan tell you why it requires a Warden to slay the Archdemon?”

 

Too tired to be angry, too numb from fighting the clangour in his mind, “He didn’t have time. If he said anything during our trip to Ostagar, I was in no mood to hear it.”

 

Riordan sighed heavily, scrubbing a hand over his face, “I see.” The Warden’s blue eyes, dark with fatigue, face haggard and worn, “The darkspawn are soulless creatures, while the Archdemon is not... At least, not completely. When the body is killed, the soul survives, entering the nearest Tainted vessel. If that vessel is a darkspawn or even a ghoul, as at that point, the soul that once was housed in that body is Tainted to nothingness - the Archdemon rises again. A Warden is Tainted, but is not soulless - and if a Warden lands the last blow, he or she is the closest vessel. And the souls will destroy each other... Ending the Blight.”

 

“And what of the Warden?” Loghain asked, as Ferox was too tired, still processing, was trying not to look at what the dread told him was the actual answer.

 

“The Warden dies. There are four Wardens in Ferelden, one at this time refuses his duty. Not that it matters, I am the oldest in the Taint, so I will take the blow.” Riordan nodded, crossing his arms, clearly at peace with this decision. “But if I am unsuccessful, someone else must kill the Archdemon. If Alistair were here, he is theoretically the oldest in the Taint. However - there is one thing about the Joining. If one is past their youth when they take it, their time, it is...vastly shorter than someone young and able to withstand the Taint. The oldest to take the Joining I know, Papillion, was sixty. He was nearly addled with it, only five years later. He did not last past West Hills before he had to find an entrance to the Deep Roads and go to his Calling.”

 

They were quiet, each mulling over those ramifications. 

 

“I would rather take the blow then, let my death serve as some penance, if it comes to it.” Loghain drew himself up, shoulders squared under armour that was never made for him, but a body had been forced to grow to fit. “My life serves nothing, but in death, if I can serve Ferelden, I will do so.”

 

Shaking his head once, Ferox overrode him, at least slightly, “If I’m the next oldest in the Taint, then that is what matters.”

 

The force of Loghain's voice was surprising, “Boy, you will listen to me on this. I am well past fifty years of age, five or ten more until the Calling takes me, while you have twenty or thirty until your time comes. Do not rush headlong into death like a fool. There are not enough of those who are still able to carry any weight on their shoulders left.”

 

Unable to bite his tongue, Ferox crackled, “I have been dead at the hand of the Hero of River Dane for sometime now, so it will finally be official and final.” He didn’t see fit to add that the ‘hero’ had been Fergus, when he had been a child playing the part of the chevalier Loghain had taken his armour from. Nor did he mention that the more formal deathblow had come far more recently at the hand of the actual hero, with the actions of his men and a mummy hanging in the bowels of Fort Drakon.

 

Riordan silenced them both, “We will see. I am not so old that I am unfit, there is still life in these old bones, and I plan to take the blow. Do not throw your lives away, spend them wisely. Both of you have other responsibilities that need your hands at the reins as long as possible, unless there is no other choice. I suggest you both get some rest, this will be one of the last nights in real beds, best to enjoy it while they’re available. For myself, I need a good bottle of wine, or even a bad pint of swill. There’s an Orlesian lass, who might pity an old man, that I wish to make eyes at while there’s a chance to embrace life for a moment longer.”

 

Leaving the old Warden and fleeing Loghain, all Ferox wanted was to find light, just for a single second. Everything he had been afraid could happen, would - he would be taken away from the sun. He had to prepare himself for that, even if Loghain should be the one, and Riordan should be successful - but he couldn’t believe. Not in either of them. Something would happen, that was how his life was, so he had to make sure there was more than one backup plan, and he was the best one he had. A broken wail in his mind screamed with grief, quickly muffled, barely able to keep from running to his and Zevran’s room. 

 

Attaining it, Ferox met an unpleasant surprise. He had been foolish to stop questioning Morrigan’s presence, too accustomed to her being there, making herself useful. Ferox remembered the smell of her poultices, her hands cool while Zevran’s were warm, both working on his injuries when Wynne would be drained. Her words softer as she spoke with the elf, assisting him in feeding and washing those first days. The gratefulness on her face that was extremely vulnerable when he told her of the slaying of Flemeth. Or whatever husk she was wearing at that time. Those had rung true, so, in many ways, this revelation - that she had _known_ \- stung the more. Requesting time to think it over, to either do it himself or order Loghain, or even deny her request - she had only nodded, accepting that need and not pushing. 

 

Almost to Loghain’s door, a hand yanked on him, pulling him to an alcove, frightened lambent gold eyes catching and throwing back light queerly, “ _Querido_ , you must do this thing. Whatever she asks, do it.”

 

Of course Zevran knew. “How do you know?”, wanting to accuse, but unable to - not this one, not the sun, not the light that was trembling and shaking as it pressed itself to him.

 

“Warden business - Warden _secrets_. I have ears and I have stealth, I use them,” arms wrapped around Ferox’s waist, ignoring the armour between them, cleaving to him as though suddenly Ferox were the lifeline. “Nor am I so stupid to not do maths and tally sums or use logic.”

 

“You know what she asks,” sighing into the sweaty elf-locked hair, breathing in leather and sunshine and spices and everything safe.

 

“If I could do it for you Ferox, I would, and easily,” the aquiline nose found his neck, pressing and breathing in. “Anything for you. If the old shit is unwilling, I will make him willing. If even then it does not work, I will haul you in there myself and hold you while you do what must be done. Please...please do not...do not abandon me. Do not forsake me to this world without you in it. Anything you wish of me, anything you wish me to be, please, I will do it, just...do not...do not leave me. Kill me now if you plan on leaving me. It will be a mercy.”

 

“Loghain will tell me ‘no’, and I have nothing to compel him. Anora is not in our care, she is in Alistair’s.”

 

The was a desperate note in the warmed whisky vocal cords, “Tell him if he does this and survives, then he can become Alistair’s advisor - that he will have a say in the shaping of Ferelden. That perhaps if he worked hard enough he could convince Alistair to wed Anora. Not that the Chantry boy would, but it is a _chance_. One he would not have if dead.”

 

“He wants to die, something I don’t see anything wrong with...except that someone will have to fill Duncan’s place in Ferelden. A place which I don’t want, and more importantly, dying is not an acceptable backup plan at all.” 

 

“Neither do I, but I _know_ you, and you will take that blow, and you will -” Zevran’s voice shattered, obviously unable to say it, the light flickering in pure anguish.

 

One more thing to carry on a back already bowed with the weight, one more bargain to make to save them, another bite to swallow and try not to choke upon, “Loghain will not be harmed, he will take on the duties of whatever is required of him here. No retribution from you or me. If it comes, it will be from the Wardens or Alistair himself, not us. I will not stay in Ferelden, not even to take the obligation of Highever, Alistair will have to find another. After this, I am done, having discharged every single burden one dark fiery night laid upon my shoulders. If you will come with me now, I will do this thing so you are certain that it is done, so you are assured that I will not seek to throw myself at the Archdemon without this backup plan in place. Are we agreed?”

 

The taste of sun was in his mouth, clutching still, the only time it had ever taken for itself, ever asked for itself. Salt was in his mouth and the face between his hands was wet. He was willing and would do whatever it took to banish the terror that rocked through the sun. It was the only burden he wished to bear. It was the only one he chose to. And so it was oddly light on his heart and mind and shoulders. 

 

“She probably would appreciate us bathed,” mumbled hoarsely, taking note of the blood still on their armour.

 

Morrigan appeared surprised to see Ferox and to see him accompanied. “Is this a ‘no’? I’ve no wish to see a friend throw his life away and another’s along with himself.”

 

“It isn’t a no, Morrigan. But Zevran will stay,” said firmly, implacable. “That is my only condition.”

 

The Wild’s Witch sagged with apparent relief, “That will do. But his seed best not get near me, there must be no chance that it is his rather than yours. Failure is...is unacceptable for your sakes.”

 

Zevran leaned into Ferox’s back, uncharacteristically hiding.

 

“I am here at his request, not for myself. So he will have no questions or doubts as to the deed being done. Zevran is very aware of what is at stake, as am I.”

 

Morrigan undressed quickly, “Then my friends, let us ensure that what can be done, is.”

 

Her lips began moving as Zevran helped him remove the fresh clothes, or the freshest they had been able to find in their packs after their bath, a look of concentration on her face. Climbing onto the bed, Ferox steeled himself, but then familiar hands were on him, lips pressing over his spine, and his eyes slid closed at the sensation as it warmed and soothed. A whispered word in his ear warned him of fingers sliding along his cleft, speaking of intent. They would be doing this together, it would be shared, the burden lessened in any way it could be. Fingers came into play, and a gasp from Morrigan as Zevran leaned over Ferox’s side, his mouth moving along her thigh, a motion Ferox copied. Still her near silent chanting continued as she too was prepared. 

 

It wasn’t particularly unpleasant. There was gratefulness and thanks in each of Zevran’s touches given to the witch, reminding Ferox that even if there had been an ulterior motive - they all had them on their shared trek - she had been as much friend as she could be. The assassin hissed when he and Ferox’s combined fingers tested the wetness, the resistance not understood, until the muttered word ‘virgin’ reached his ears. Greater time was spent then, Zevran pausing in his pleasuring of Ferox, showing and demonstrating quietly while Ferox mostly watched, finding brief flashes of similarities and curious differences, while Morrigan nearly stuttered to a halt, a hand fluttering to the blond head nestled between her thighs.

 

Eventually his assassin pulled away, wiping his mouth, explaining to the widened sulfur eyes after she had been brought over, the plump burgundy stained lips still moving, “So this act will hurt you less.”

 

Then the familiar mouth was on his length, though it had not flagged, finding a strange erotic arousal to the scene that had played out. Still, Ferox was relieved, then the movement back to where it was needed, then a gradual filling, a hand taking his to grasp Morrigan’s hip, turning her to face them. It was nearly impossible to think when Zevran was buried inside him, but it helped that there was no movement, just that filling pressure. Carefully Ferox guided his cock to her softness while Zevran held Morrigan still - as though expecting her to try and just shove herself down onto the waiting erection. It was slow, it was different, it was far from bad, his body finding no burden in the pleasure, his mind and heart having given up thoughts of ‘burden’ only because it was what the sun needed and all it had ever asked of him. A choked sound and the chanting became audible, Morrigan’s face tucking it into his shoulder as the thin barrier of flesh tore. Sliding an arm under her, Ferox found himself cradling her, focusing on their breathing - hers, his, and his lover’s. Motion began, Zevran pushing in when Ferox pulled out, so that the three of them rocked in a strangely staggered rhythm, until Morrigan was panting out her chanting, the heat blooming from Ferox’s body started at the base of his spine and where the underside of Zevran’s shaft rubbed firmly against his nerves, experiencing the use of ten spheres, as never before had the assassin taken him like that. Possibly to prevent memories, he would think as he looked back on the experience. But that was not now, not when he was finding himself struggling to hang on as the pressure built, body readying itself to empty within the soft and silken, but somehow very different, sheath of a woman’s body. 

 

With a groan, his hips snapped forward, thrusts stuttering against the yielding wetness, hugging Morrigan to him, a strong arm over the two of them, Zevran’s own thrusting relentless and measured, causing testicles to tighten and spill in long spurts of white hot shocks. The beautiful and wanted and familiar and soothing moan-turned-snarl was pressed into his shoulder as the elf followed. Morrigan took longer, but he wasn’t sure she would be brought over again, or even if she could be, until Zevran worked a hand between them and plied the satiny ridge, earning a hiccuping sound of completion. Off and on sleep was not had, other than fitful dozing, and if Morrigan even dozed, was an unknown fact to Ferox, for she appeared to be working her magic until dawn, when she finally began to slip from the bed.

 

Grasping her wrist, Ferox tugged her back down under the blankets. Even if a child with the Old God’s soul was her aim the entire time, she had still been a friend in this act. He would not put her out. If only for the sake of Zevran’s relief and a chance to banish the darkness from the face of the sun, Ferox would be eternally grateful to her. A brief moment he worried over what sort of parent she would be, but he remembered the cool hands, the concerned voice once more, and the surprised ducking of a pale skinned face, accompanied by rapid blinking. And to seal it was the arms that came around him as well, this hadn’t been solely just for her own ends. Until late afternoon they slept in a pile, and he awoke to a full mouth pressing to his cheek, then breasts brushing his forearm as she pressed a similar kiss to Zevran’s temple before she left, a ring placed on the end table with great hesitancy. 

 

Later, when he put the ring on a thumb experimentally, it tingled and he felt once again lips on his cheek. Taking it off, he threaded it through the leather thong that held Zevran’s token and the Joining amulet. Unlike the earring, he would never wear Morrigan’s ring openly, but he knew it for what it was - a connection to the woman who would have what would likely be his only child. Removing the earring, he looked at it, touching his earlobe, frowning, and turned to Zevran, holding it out with a tilt of his head. It was time to wear it, Ferox decided in that moment. 

 

The march back to Denerim went faster, their force split into threes, a smaller one quick timing it back. It was nothing but fire and smoke and wreckage, making it impossible for Ferox to breathe, but then with a habit gained during the march, he would tug his ear, feel the still fresh sting of an earring. And then he would be able to press onwards. Riordan fell, foolishly and needfully. If he had not, then the Archdemon’s wing would not have been rent, never mind that there had been ballistae to do the same job. Yet he tried to look on with some hope. Horse had looked at Loghain, then at Zevran near the gates, hung his head and shoved his nose in Zevran’s hand. 

 

Scratching the great head, “Of course I’m taking him.”

 

Worried eyebrows scrunched up, then looked at Loghain again, then to the top of the Fort. 

 

“I’m taking you too.” Before the hound could voice some protest, “And I’m taking Wynne. We’ll need someone to keep us patched up until we get to tangle with that overgrown lizard. Hey, maybe we’ll make you a new collar, would you like that?”

 

Horse got to his feet, leaning heavily against Ferox’s legs.

 

“No, Loghain is a general still, and if for some reason we get held up, he’s another Warden.”

 

The faithful hound sneezed an agreement, then went to Morrigan, nosing her stomach and ‘talking’ to her, saying his mabari goodbyes with licks and woofs. Wynne surprised him by saying that she was not just proud of him, but of Zevran, that the tenderness was finally acknowledged. Not that Ferox needed her approval in anything, but it was nice, he supposed. Leliana sent him with her prayers and hopes. Morrigan was clearly upset at being left behind, but admitted that her healing skills were minimal, seeming truly sorry in that moment as she said her final goodbyes to him. Zevran received a hug from the witch, strange as that was, but it was off behind a pillar. The only reason Ferox saw it, was because he had gone to speak with his lover, everyone else having been seen to and checked on, from Sten to Loghain, to Oghren to Shayle. It was a rare display of any sign of affection, the reviled ‘touching, always touching’ thrown to the winds for that second. 

 

Wrapping Zevran in his arms, their armour clanking oddly, Ferox dipped his face to press his forehead to Zevran’s, unable to not say what had been there for so long, “You know I love you, right?”

 

“I...yes...yes...I know. I do,” it was choked, strained as though searching for something to say.

 

Ferox smiled tiredly, kissing him once. He knew what the sun felt, words weren’t needed. Renewing the vow that as soon as the Archdemon was dead and a ship could be found, that they would leave for anywhere not Ferelden, Ferox sipped that taste of summer’s wine. Road dust got in his nose, but that didn’t matter. The taste was all that did, the texture and sound that blotted out even the siren’s song of a Tainted Old God.

 

The blast was horrible, it stunned him, nearly made his mind shatter. Ferox felt pieces pull apart at the seams, but just as a few of them started to slip, then something pulled it away before that disaster could be fully realized, stopping it at the last moment, leaving him battered, but mostly intact. Blessedly the song stopped, silent for the first time since taking the cup. Every single one of his ribs hurt, an arm hung limply at his side, unable to be lifted. With detached fascination he catalogued each of his wounds, too dazed to truly feel any of them in truth except distantly. Someone was crying out his name repeatedly, prying his helmet away, lips just shy of his. Those were tempting and he somehow managed to claim them, the darkness of red skies blotted out and banished. 

 

Laughing nearly hysterically, “If you can kiss me, _querido_ , then you can survive if you fight.” 

 

Then there was shouting for Wynne and another blur of time. A field clinic, a pavilion with a familiar field cot. At some point the danger passed, that much Ferox was certain of. Zevran was beside him, holding him, his face nestled in the crook of his neck, the healed collarbone mended, as well as the other bones that needed work. But like the last time he had been down and out so bad, he was weak as a kitten. His assassin wasn’t much better, but managed, clearly used to great privation, at least from one of those typically world shattering off-handed comments.

 

A hand found its way to cup the head to him tenderly, “Zevran?”

 

“Hmmn?” a nuzzle came with it. “Yes, _mi amora_?”

 

“When can we leave?”

 

“As soon as we are healed and a boat can be found, hmn? Though Alistair must be crowned, we have been...requested...to remain for that. All of us have. It would be unwise to ignore such a thing I believe,” the face lifted to look at him. “I thought you were saying goodbye to me, so did not say it then - I love you as well, _querido._ Thank you for not forsaking me.”

 

A weak chuckle broke free, “How could I ever leave my sun? I hate the darkness.”

 

“In that case, I only shine for you, _querido_.”

 

It was longer than he wanted to stay, and Ferox chafed at the bondage. But he remained until Alistair was crowned, and until he was _fully_ healed. Zevran received word from Ignacio that the Guild was in enough of a divide that careful negotiations might be possible. However, they would have to be at full strength. 

 

Some joy had been found thankfully - Fergus was alive, relatively well, the grief of losing his whole family, or what he had thought was his whole family until he found a way to Denerim, still weighed heavily. Zevran had been looked at once, then embraced as another family member, thanks given for ‘taking care of the Pup and that rascal Horsie of his’, which had earned raised brow directed at Ferox who only pressed his face into a palm. Fergus tried to con Ferox into staying, into taking Amaranthine, but Ferox had shook his head repeatedly, saying all he wanted was a quiet plantation in Antiva, that it had been promised to him, and he was damn well going to go and get it, even if it was pretend. Or if he wound up melting in the heat. And if it really was pretend, well he had killed an Archdemon, what was dealing with a guild of assassins and finding a little plot of mud and dirt to play in until he was decrepit? Plus they each had a neat little nest-egg that had been left unspent, alongside anything Zevran had to his name in Antiva or secreted on his person. Something about ‘banks’ that had nothing to do with water, and something about ‘interest’ that wasn’t about someone wanting something, not to mention ‘stocks’ that were neither soup nor animals. 

 

Ferox would leave the numbers to Zevran, he would take over the dirt. 

 

However, Fergus had prevailed upon him to remain in Amaranthine for a few months, ‘no more than six’, just to keep some order until the worst was settled. Zevran had whispered in his ear one thing that made it bearable - snow would come within that period of time. A great deal of it. Enough to need a cloak. That had perked Ferox up enough to just growl at his brother, saying that beyond the six months was non-negotiable, that after that period of time, he would walk, any other ‘responsibilities’ be damned. 

 

....

 

During one of their trips to Amaranthine, Zevran paused, head slowly tracking someone. Ferox was used to it, it was just looking, and half the time anyone attractive enough for the elf to look at _that_ long was at the very least interesting in some way other than looks. He thought it probably had to do with being able to judge a person - mark, ally, or anyone else - within just a few minutes. That was why few held his attention very long for those looks. There had to be some spark of other qualities beyond the surface to be subjected to such scrutiny. 

 

Elbowing him a little as he looked over a few bags of what Zevran said were ‘passable’ spices, “What is it?”

 

“Who, not what, and who is very pleasant,” shifting enough to continue watching.

 

Curiosity piqued, Ferox glanced seeing several people walking the street, “Which one?”

 

“Curly ebony hair, nice little rump and a tight waist, the front is just as pleasant,” a finger shot out, pointing from the crook of an elbow of the folded arms. “She has blue eyes and a comely bosom, her face is a tad plain, but, eh, she appears to be a very nice girl. Sweet. Like a peach.”

 

“Nice,” sighting along the finger surreptitiously, Ferox saw the woman in question. Modestly dressed, with hair bound back from her face with a blue ribbon, hips faintly swaying with each step, owing to the basket on her hip, he had to admit, her movements had that subtle grace of someone familiar with their actions. 

 

“I may not be a single man, but I do still have eyes,” it was an apology and unnecessary.

 

Making a face, because though he recognized it as an apology, it still sounded strange. “I don’t get it.”

 

“What? I am merely enjoying the view, I am not going to chase her down or anything.” There was a thoughtful pause, head tilting to the side, “However the thought of watching you and she...? Hmn, that would be a very nice feature to experience in the Fade.”

 

Staring at his lover, bemused at how strange he was sometimes, Ferox shook his head. “There’s something wrong with your head.”

 

Almost offended, but comically so, “What? You and that...? Nice, definitely very nice - oh let a dirty old man keep his fantasies, will you, _amora_?”

 

Snorting at Zevran, Ferox jerked his chin towards the woman in question, “Well if that happens, make sure you’re present, as I know that would be even more interesting.”

 

Lips pursed, “You know, I am half tempted to flag her down and haul you both off, hmn?”

 

Laughing outright, “Watch where you point that weapon of yours - it might make that guard who’s kissin’ her a little nervous. Don’t worry, I can take him though.”

 

Zevran looked back to see the scene of the pretty girl happily kissing a dark haired and dark skinned, rawboned guard on the cheek. There was an easy familiarity between the two, like newlyweds and long time friends. It was a sweet thing, a sweet thing that might not have existed if the Archdemon still lived. In little moments like that, Ferox almost didn’t mind having done that unwanted duty. With a pang, he knew Rory would have loved to been part of that ending, to have protected Ferelden from the Blight. In a way, he was, as he was visible each time Ferox looked at Loghain, knowing that his late lover had also looked up to and admired the Hero of River Dane as much as he had.

 

Winter was cold, of course it was, but while the Vigil was comfortable, it was not cozy the way Soldier’s Peak had been. Plus, there was paperwork, something Ferox had never thought about, thinking he would function like a bann, until Zevran pointed out that he likely would have been a seneschal instead. With a very large pile of paperwork on his desk each day. That had gained the elf a wadded up staffing list thrown at his head with a good-natured growl, which was dodged easily. They were not left sedentary and his lover’s skill with numbers came into play - as well as a discovery that there was a very perverse love of lists - reorganizing Amaranthine and the Vigil from the top down and back up. His father’s words rang in his mind - to leave the camp cleaner than it was found. But there were many days during the winter when Zevran would demand a walk to play in the snow. Something about wishing to build a snowfort, and that the guards were too lazy, and the Vigil’s children could beat them. And usually they did - led of course by Zevran, the biggest kid of them all. 

 

Face flushed, stamping off the last of the snow and wiggling happily, Zevran laughed as he came in from another win, the great cloak shaken free of snow. “Ah, another resounding, undeniable victory!” Veritably preening as he paraded around the office, “And I come to claim the spoils of war from you, _amora_!”

 

“From me?! You already washed my face with snow! And here Horse was supposed to be on my side...I swear, I thought he was cheering for you.” Ferox was still picking clumps of snow out of the back of his shirt and tossing them to melt on the hearth. 

 

Zevran grinned, already removing boots and then his vest, careful to let the cloak remain in place. “Oh yes, he was cheering - he was cheering that I had you on your back. Hmnhmn...”

 

“The guards are beginning to feel bad because they are beaten every week by a large child and his gang of smaller brutes.” Pulling the tie from his braid, which was also packed with snow, Ferox peeled off his wet shirt and hung it to dry on a rack near the fire. Muttering, “Oh no wonder,” he found another snowball shoved in his boots. “You do this just to get me soaked, I know it.”

 

Lips were licked, then on his, hands helpfully prying at Ferox’s clothes, “Then we should get you out of these wet things, hmmmn...?”

 

“I’m pretty certain I’m suffering from déjà vu...didn’t this happen last week? And yet you, for some strange reason, remain mysteriously free of snowballs hidden on your person.” 

 

Chilled fingers slid along his waist, “I am very fast.”

 

“Ahhh! Cold!” Ferox tried to dance out of reach, “Fast?!? That speed of yours is beyond fast and you know it.”

 

Zevran laughed, pouncing after him, the great cloak flapping, emphasizing everything sleek and feline. “Ah, but of course I had to draw on my reserves, there are the spoils of victory I wish to claim, _amora_ , chief-most amongst them - your very handsome self.”

 

Snorting, Ferox toed off his boots dumping the contents out on the hearth before setting them to dry. “And here I heard, ‘my very handsome _elf_ ’.” 

 

It was interesting to see such unfettered verve and vivaciousness from Zevran, as Ferox had always thought him rather relaxed and tending towards joyous. The elf was more than twice his age and was throwing himself into Ferox’s arms and lap in the chair, clasping him tightly, laughing. Frankly he wondered how he wasn’t immolated in the constant blazing of the sun without cloud cover. 

 

“Well of course I am yours, _amora_ , and we both know I am handsome, this is not news,” vaguely damp and definitely chilly, the elf pressed closer to Ferox. “So, shall we hie away to the boudoir, or test out the sturdiness of this chair, or perhaps the size of your desk, hmn? I am a benevolent victor.”

 

“As much as I like paperwork, I would rather not try out the desk. I prefer a mattress...boring and routine, I know, but I do like to be comfortable and I prefer that you are warm.” Standing, in a smooth motion, Ferox slung Zevran over his shoulders. “Benevolent victor indeed...my snow cat just wants to be worshipped.”

 

Ferox carried his prize through the intervening doorway to their temporary bedroom. To make it more homey, the many pelts and furs that had been trapped and not sold were brought down from Soldier’s Peak. The influx of Wardens from other countries here to help mop up the many straggling darkspawn were not told of the Peak, it remained a secret between the companions and the Drydens, though Ferox and Zevran had planned to make a last stop to talk to the ancient maleficar to gain a better understanding of what time they would have. 

 

It also occurred to him that Zevran was so casual at acknowledging, accepting that he himself was handsome, while Ferox avoided mirrors, concerned that the treatment he had received both in and atop Fort Drakon was disfiguring, the odd looks he received from the companions had further driven this belief. Setting it aside, Zevran didn’t care, didn’t look at him any differently, and whatever it was, he didn’t want to know.

 

For now that held little of his thoughts, busy as he was unwrapping the elf, easing the dark leggings that had been worn beneath the old leather, wolf fur trimmed trews, over powerful and lean hips. Rubbing a rough cheek over the revealed skin, here in the cloak, for some reason was his favourite place to be, warm with his sun, and breathing in the flavour of brown skin. Ferox rumbled, “I love being here with you.”

 

Fingers tangled in his hair, watching him intently, “And wherever I am, is where you will be, as I will not leave you, _mi hermoso corizon._ Not for anything, my magnificent _shemlen._ ”

 

Ferox licked the crown of the impressive length, before wrapping his lips around it, an arm tight around the slightly flexing hips. Holding Zevran, wanting more of his sun, he rumbled again, fingers slipping up and down the ladder of rods and spheres. The voice rich with words, Ferox wanted more to fall around him, to cover him, just as the snowcat fur hid him away. Inhaling deeply, snow and sun and everything Zevran, words given to tell him the separate scents, but Ferox could never pick them apart, filled his head. Praise and endearments fell from the sky as Ferox took to the worship he could never stop himself from. There was no reason to, until he was toothless and old, if he made it that far at least, he would still want this. Back arching with a low moan as the pulse came between his lips as always followed by the guttural sound of completion, while Ferox suckled the thread of the first spilling, Zevran climaxed as Ferox listened avidly, the hands in his hair cupping and holding him close without force.

 

Parting long enough to finish pulling Zevran’s leggings away, then his own, both were tossed to the nearest chair - they would keep until they were finished. The tone of his lover’s legs was always a touch fascinating, the thighs were nearly as thick around as his own, the power to spring and vault housed in those muscles. Tracing one of the long tendons with his tongue, nipping his way up, as above, there was twisting, a hand grabbing the thick salve that they both found they preferred, to pass it to him. 

 

Rubbing his chin against Zevran’s thigh, “Impatient...?”

 

“Perhaps...just slightly,” a grin flashing at him. The assassin rolled over onto his knees, reaching back to stroke the dusky ring, a finger already working at the opening, “I need you, _querido._ Need your touch.”

 

Scooping a hefty dollop of the slightly sweet smelling unguent, Ferox firmly bit a cheek, a grin of his own coming at the sharply indrawn breath and the press back. Shifting to sit, legs splayed so they draped over Zevran’s calves, he set to work. Easing a finger from each hand in, he massaged the walls slowly, waiting for the impatient moan and wiggle before adding more. Ferox was leery of doing some of the same things that Zevran did for him - after all, the elf’s hands were flexible, and while broader than many men’s, were not the same as Ferox’s much larger ones. However, last time had been close, and the sensation of the delicate membrane stretching tight around his knuckles as Zevran moaned, pleading for more with a wild note in his voice, had been heady. The power to give pleasure to one he wanted so very much to please, was intoxicating and addictive. 

 

With smooth twisting of his wrist, Ferox watched intently and listened just as closely for any hint of discomfort or pain. Only deep breathing and a short groan as his hand, fingers pressed to his thumb, drilled in past the middle knuckle. Smearing another large scoop of salve around the ring as it flexed around his fingers, he took a deep breath, timing the increasing pressure to Zevran’s gradually escalating moans and the twisting of hips. His lover’s back arched tightly when the last of his knuckles slid in, head thrown back, gasping Ferox’s name. Muscles milked as another flow of ejaculate splashed out, almost wastefully in his opinion as he licked his lips hungrily, on to their sheets. 

 

“ _More_ ,” Zevran reached back, panting, trying to grab Ferox’s forearm. Pleading, “Touch me, _amora_.”

 

Pausing, Ferox used his other hand to massage Zevran’s dripping cock, “Love, I don’t want to hurt you.”

 

Zevran whimpered, face burying itself in the blankets, “Please, _querido_ , I want to feel you stroking me from the inside.”

 

Goal in mind, it took time, but was time that he spent, with many pauses for hands clutching and tearing at bedding as Zevran found release easily under his ministrations. With a startling drawing in motion, suddenly the last few inches were swallowed down to his broad wrist, strong muscles working and flexing and clenching down so hard that there was no way to move, Zevran’s upper body falling to the mattress with a helpless sound as pearl strands shot out with nearly audible force. Ferox was stunned - he was literally able to massage Zevran from the inside, to stroke the same way as he would the small of a back or a cheek. It was more than he could take, or nearly so. 

 

Zevran rocked and squirmed shamelessly, making noises that Ferox couldn’t even begin to identify, other than strangled endearments, praise and his name. A mix of languages was used, a constant rolling moan or gasp or growl with the occasional snarl, the sheets and bedding a tangled mess as Zevran was a desperate shaking wreck, with each stroke and twist, the slow withdrawal and gentle push back in, obviously driving him mad. Ferox shuddered, his own body flexing in time to the pleasured cries going straight from his ears to his manhood, tempting him greatly to seek his own release. By the time Ferox slid his hand free, his lover was visibly trembling, the muscles in thigh and back twitching as they shook.

 

Brown hands reached back, spreading himself, to show just how open his body had been made, “Does it look good?”

 

Running a gentle finger around the flexing hole that gaped, the insides a dark mauve, “You always look good.”

 

Sagging to the side, shaking legs wrapped around Ferox’s waist, tugging on him as Zevran rolled to his back, a final plea, “Inside - now, please, _amora._ ”

 

Though it didn’t take long, it wasn’t expected to, the culmination of the worship of his sun god coming with force and stuttering moans. Ferox couldn’t help thinking that he must have won all of the snowball fights, but he thought that by the end of each ‘win’ anyway. Basking in his sun, his light, Ferox drifted off, contented.

 

....

 

Spring came again and Ferox received a request from Fergus to stay, which was far from unexpected. The reply was brief. “Dear F, I send this note ahead as we ready to travel. Six months you requested, and six months I have already given. No more. Z & I will see you before taking our leave of Ferelden. You will have to make more Couslands to fill the roles if you can find no replacements. Z found Howe’s former seneschal - Varel. They never saw eye to eye, and the man had done much good for the people while Howe was occupied elsewhere. Am leaving Varel in charge - you’ll like him. As much respect as I can give to my favourite brother, F.A.C.” Sealed with the waxed impression of the Cousland laurel, Ferox sent it off with a copy of the summary of the Arling of Amaranthine’s books and business. The sooner they were on their way to Soldier’s Peak, the better. 

 

He wasn’t certain what to do about the Peak. Technically it belonged to the Wardens, however, it was also in Highever’s sphere of influence. True, Alistair knew about it, but as the newly crowned king had his hands full of other things, likely the dilapidated keep had been forgotten. But the Peak in some ways was home, inexplicable as it was. Perhaps it was the fact that snow was still on the ground that high up, while in the lowlands it had turned mostly to mud. Little but good memories existed there, other than brief bouts of cabin fever, and dealing with the abomination of Sophia Dryden. If it ever came to it, he and Zevran could live there in contentment, untouched by the outside world but for trips for some limited supplies. Ferox decided to discuss the matter with Fergus as he had already washed his hands of Loghain and Alistair. 

 

Politely, before they had left Denerim, he had accepted Alistair’s apology and given his own. Loghain and he had exchanged a quiet conversation, a passing of the torch, nothing of great importance said, no accusations or allegations made, no restitution demanded. Nor did Ferox tell the general of Soldier’s Peak. In leaving Ferelden, no bridges would be burnt, one never knew if they would be needed for a retreat, as stomach churning it would be to use them. Always have a back up plan, keep options open, do not make an enemy when one does not have to be made. It was difficult not to turn words into weapons and throw them at anyone, but this journey had never been easy. No path was without its traps, actual ones or just devious plots made by everyone around them.

 

At the Peak during the first bath he had had in over a week, slogging through mud and rain, the ring on his necklace pulsed. Curious, he had pulled it off to place it on his thumb, then a sharp cramp ran through him, yet was distant. Almost pulling it off, he sensed that it was Morrigan cramping and in pain. A quick tally of months and he knew - she was giving birth. There was an odd sense of realization, as though she had noticed his presence reaching across the vastness, and a sense of apology came as though she would pull back and try to contain her pain - but Ferox growled, hoping she could feel that he wished she would let him be present for this thing. So he sat there, until Zevran came in with food, and he had had to tersely explain Morrigan was having birth pains. Hours blurred and he felt her weakening, until the pain did not quite stop, but it lessened, overcome with triumph. A stirring in her breast, for it was not his own, a curious feeling, one he easily identified, as it was what he felt each time he awoke to see Zevran laying beside him - peace and love - and then he too felt it for himself. Whatever child that had been made, the one that enabled him to remain in the light of his sun, would be cared for. Kissing the gold band, Ferox put it back on the thong to fall into an exhausted sleep. 

 

Why he had agreed to go to Highever before leaving Ferelden for good, Ferox wasn’t entirely certain. Perhaps it was merely duty to his brother who wanted him to meet Alise, the woman who had nursed Fergus back to health, the one Fergus indicated he was considering asking to marry him. Perhaps it was to visit his parents’ grave...although if Rory had been drug to Fort Drakon, why not his mother? Oh Maker, that was a path that led nowhere good. She wasn’t in Howe’s dungeons at Amaranthine, that much was certain. The moment he arrived he went straight there just to ease his conscience. He should have gone back to Highever, should have looked. The horror of that realization would never leave him, never let him rest...if there was one thing Zevran could be assured of, it was that Ferox would never leave a stone unturned ever again.

 

As their footsteps neared Highever, they were dogged by Levi who felt that it was owed to them for ending the Blight and restoring the Dryden name, to at least keep them supplied and with someone carrying their extra gear in the wagon. And Ferox’s discomfort grew. Each step was a fight, a struggle, much like he imagined going to fight the Archdemon would have been if Morrigan’s ritual had not been taken. Keeping the imaginary plantation in mind, remembering all of the little details was all that kept him from turning heel and fleeing. Zevran, with broad gestures and a riot of words to encompass impossible colours and tastes, was most helpful in adding to the picture, pretend though it was. It sounded like another of those weird imaginary things - an oasis - the plantation, the city, the towns. They sounded like a refuge to aim for and to find safety in from the outside. When they came to where he had finally regained consciousness after Duncan hauled him from the wreckage, Horse pressed himself tight to his leg and Zevran slid his hand into his. Hooking his fingers through Horse’s collar, Ferox had closed his eyes the rest of the way, trusting the Crow and hound to lead him to that place safely. 

 

It was the only way he could continue forwards. 

 

Castle Highever came into view...ruins with few but the thickest walls standing. Burnt timbers fallen, collapsing into rooms below. It had been through other permutations earlier in its lifetime and no doubt would see others in its future. Ferox couldn’t even look at the derelict stone towers, his face kept perpetually turned away as if he had blinders on, as if it would spontaneously alight and screams would climb to the skies, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand on end. Zevran pulled them to a stop for a moment, grabbing his chin and forcing him to look down at him, a thumb quickly over Ferox’s mouth, silently reminding him that he was not alone.

 

Fergus, with the assistance of the local folk, had rebuilt several of the barns, one of which he had been calling home. The castle itself was secondary to caring for the livestock, which had been rounded up by those who remained, and the storage of foodstuffs. True, most had been removed to Amaranthine and Denerim, but enough remained to rebuild and replant. It was all Ferox could do to focus on those small details. Woodenly he went through the motions, only feeling any relief once inside a barn, doors shut firmly so he could not _see_ any chance thing to remind him of that night.

 

In the middle of the night, once he was settled with a mouthful of sunshine, Zevran slipped away, telling him he would be back shortly. Across the barn to where Fergus was with Alise, the elf went, a rapid-fire conversation that Ferox knew was about him, about being there, he could hear it, though his head felt stuffed with cotton. Zevran’s voice was strong, refusing to be swayed, telling Fergus that it was not possible to keep Ferox there long.

 

“You lost everything in one night when you were not here - but he had to _see_ it,” emphatic, nearly a snarl. “You cannot ask him to do more than he already has, to give more than he has - there is nothing left, Ferelden has sucked all from him. And you wish to ask for more, thinking that somehow there might be anything left. Well, there is most assuredly _not_. Let him find some peace.”

 

Come late dawn, Zevran was practically hauling him physically to where the husk of Castle Highever could not be seen, and they set up their familiar and cozy tent. “If he wishes to see us, he can come down, _amora_. I refuse to let you be there a moment longer.” As soon as a fire was lit and the tent set up, Zevran grabbed him to himself tightly and Ferox went willingly, unable to speak other than to bury his face in the broad chest before him as fingers massaged his skull. “I am afraid that Antiva will not be so peaceful either. There is the Guild to deal with. It might be weeks, months, of hiding and killing, or forcing bargains. But, once the way is paved, you will be a kept man, with as much mud and dirt as you can take, _querido_ , even though I will have to continue to work jobs for the Guild. I can promise that if we deal with them on our own terms, there will be peacefulness for you. This I swear, _mi amora_.”

 

Soaking in the sunlight and breathing in the vital scents, words drew him out of the darkness where he had hid. Slowly, gravely, “Zevran, don’t do anything you don’t want to. Not for me, not for anyone. There is choice.”

 

“I wish only for us to make a life. The Guild, if not dealt with, it has...changing politics. The choice is to deal with them on our terms and force a bargain that will give us leeway, or to have them eventually come to us...and it will not be to bargain, _amora_.” Lips pressed to his temple, “My life as a Crow is not a bad or unpleasant thing, _mi hermoso corizon_. There will be no more deep undercover missions, I will make that part of the list of conditions. To have access to myself, a nominal ‘hero’ of the Blight, on any Crow Master’s roster, or perhaps even the Guildmaster, would be quite tempting. Time to time they do allow a type of free agent to operate, but they are not usually Crows to start with... Foreigners or Free Blades with notoriety. A ‘request’ to become such a person, if met, will allow me a great deal of leeway. And so I will play with the paperwork and you will play with the dirt, and Horsie will gambol around, nipping the lazy on our plantation.”

 

Mumbling into the crook of the sun-bronzed neck, “Imaginary plantation with a turquoise door. As to being a ‘nominal’ hero, you are an extraordinary and magnificent rider of dragons, I have seen this with my own eyes.”

 

“It may no longer be turquoise, _amora_. It might be orange. Or canary yellow. It depends on Vela, my housekeeper and the current fashions, hmn? But we could paint it back to turquoise if it will make you happy,” Zevran was rocking him slowly, his heartbeat a steady thing to hang on to. “It is amusing that a little drake could put me down, but not a dragon...then again, perhaps not - little things always let me down. I much prefer something large and powerful to tackle. Must be why I remain with you, for you are the most powerful thing I know. Not even a High Dragon, an ageless abomination, or an Archdemon was satisfactory enough for me.” 

 

An arm regained strength and found its way around his lover, “You are my favourite elf in this entire tent, but I would have guessed that you would be wiser in choosing those you seek to admire. I don’t deserve such, and would admonish you to cease in such foolishness.”

 

“Ah, but I have found that nothing is greater than all the good things in life, of which you are made of,” Zevran cupped his head, tilting it so he could dip his chin to catch Ferox’s eyes. “It was only reflexive seeking, and now that the information has been gained and stored, there will be no more. You are all I want. And perhaps another cat...hmmn...will have to get one of the larger ones, so that Horsie has someone to tussle with. A caracal? Hmn, no they are distempered...a serval? Much better choice.”

 

“Zevran, he is not a pup, he is only a few years younger than I. Mabari do not live much past thirty, thirty-five being the oldest I had heard of...and she was quite...stoved up, swollen and arthritic you would say.

 

His lover frowned slightly, “And how close to that age would you say he is?”

 

“I was four when Fergus brought home _his_ mabari. Tricky fellow, Horse. Father said that he must have smelled me on Fergus’ cloak, which I would wear, to fetch somethin’ outside for Nan.” Keeping his cheek pressed to Zevran’s shoulder, letting the words flow as his assassin soothed him, “It would drag on the ground, but I wanted to be big like Fergus, and took to wearing his boots too and anything else I could lay my hands on - when he wasn’t watchin’, of course. Mabari are one or two years old when they’re ready for Imprinting, so he is a few of years shy of thirty, having drawn closer to that mark recently myself.”

 

“Mph, at the least you have five years to that mark, _amora_ , which, I somehow doubt,” it was teasing. “Else I would be in my sixties, instead of my fifties.”

 

“Few would take me seriously if I announced that I was twenty-one or two or that I was nineteen when I started this journey. They barely did when they had no idea.” Reaching up to trace one of the tattooed lines on Zevran’s face, “It was bad enough to be a young upstart noble in their eyes as is. They had no idea how close they were to the truth.” Shifting to glance at Horse who was laying on his back, paws tucked and folded over chest in the flopping ‘so dead’ pose as Fergus called it, “Nevertheless, provided he did not ingest too much darkspawn blood, I would guess another decade in Horse’s favour.” Ferox leaned up to kiss the corner of his lover’s mouth, “Not that it matters, but I thought you were thirty-five or so. Do you think Wynne would have taken you more seriously if she knew you were older?”

 

An amused grunt, “I actually told her my age once, she called me a liar, and tried to throw a rockfist at me. Possibly because I was desperately trying to get warm... I was merely trying to tell her that I was of an age to be not unfamiliar with an older woman, but, tchk, the old biddy acted as though I were a pervert. She only has a bit less than a decade on me! _Ignacio_ is older than her. Cesar is her age, and he looks forty at the most. You Fereldans do not take care of yourselves very well. ”

 

“So, was that before you sought warmth with a certain hound in my tent?”

 

“Before. Morrigan offered to warm me - with a fire spell... Sten actually picked me up by my baldric, how rude... Alistair...eeeyeaah....his tent smelled of rotten cheese that I suspect were his socks,” grumbling. “Leliana took pity on me several times, but she was displeased by the fact that her rump was particularly warm and thus a magnet for myself. A very fine, warm, large, round rump. Big as a cart, could ride it into town with the month’s vegetables for sale. But that was during that snow storm... Afterwards, when Horsie would scoot from your tent to take a piss, he found me chattering away and he was very warm. Then he head butted me towards your tent. I made him promise to get me up if you were heading in... Wily hound never did.”

 

There was a sleepy canine woofing and snuffling snort, then back scratching on the floor to roll over onto a side, settling back to sleep after sniffing towards them. 

 

“Good dog.” Hearing the head lift, “Hound. Sorry.” 

 

Convincing himself that they were still travelling, Ferox was able to actually fall asleep with his head in Zevran’s lap. The night before, he had been unable to do more than toss and turn, jerking awake at the littlest sound, trying to grab his sword and shove his lover behind him. Every time he began to snap towards wakefulness, the familiar and warm voice came, speaking low and soothingly, while fingers massaged his face and forehead. 

 

Half remembered dreams, Ferox’s own voice disturbed his sleep, only to mutter before drifting back, “But you weren’t here...it woulda been diff’rent.”

 

In the morning, seeing the tired face next to him and the hound still at his feet, Ferox knew that this could not continue. “When’s the next ship? I don’t care where it’s headed, long as it’s not Ferelden. Long as it’s not here.”

 

Zevran smiled at him tiredly, “Highever only has freight ships in port, and likely for some time. West Hills is all refugees with needlessly extortionate pricing... We would have to turn back to Amaranthine to find anything remotely reasonable and of a reasonable time-frame, _querido_.” 

 

“Jader is on the other side of the mountains. Any word there?”

 

He shook his head, “Too close to West Hills, _amora._ Orlais is trying to discourage the influx, and the news your brother has heard was not good. Amaranthine is not far, just two weeks if we are fast and do not dawdle.”

 

“Why is everyone leaving? They should be returning, especially with all of the work to be done. After all, didn’t some fool end the Blight?”

 

“One would think, but like rats in a ship that is sinking, they still pour out, even if it has stopped sinking, the holes in the hull patched,” shrugging. “It will take time for the fear to recede and the fear of the Tainted fields to diminish. Not only that, but there are still roving bands of darkspawn, _amora._ The head of the beast was cut, the horde scattered - but that does not mean it has ceased to exist.”

 

Derisively, “Certainly stopped its singing. Maker...” A heel of a palm dug sand from his eyes, “Those freighters aren’t going away empty though...lumber?”

 

“It seems most likely. Or perhaps stone, but that takes more effort than felling these many trees.”

 

“Not much profit in either though. A captain might be persuaded to make a little extra money with a couple...three passengers who don’t take up much room or require much care. Or are you trying to tell me something and I’m too stunned to understand?”

 

“I would prefer we head directly to Antiva, _querido._ Freight ships have many runs to make. And ‘Hero of Ferelden’ or not, flashing coin or being suspected of having it, it is...not always wise with the sorts of people that run these waters,” Zevran stroked his forehead. “When on a ship, we are utterly at the mercy of the crew. It is better to go with someone known, like Isabella if she were here. Which no, she is not, I checked. Though she might be at some point, as she has a soft spot for these sorts of operations...plus they earn a great deal of coin offloading vital supplies... Or with someone who has to have a name and be known as taking passengers.”

 

“Your judgement is good and trusted, but if we stay here, you may wish to concoct a sleeping draught.” Ferox dug sand from the corner of his other eye, wondering, due to the quantities, if he had been weeping in the night.

 

“That is why I said hike to Amaranthine, _querido_ ,” lips touched his quickly. “We will head out tomorrow, I will not tolerate you being exposed to this any longer, even to see your brother.”

 

“So you did say. We should speak with him about Soldier’s Peak before leaving.”

 

“I doubt he will leave us down here without a visit, but I might have been excessively adamant about how unwise it was to have expected you to come here without incidents of ah...we call it ‘battle shock’.” It was unapologetic, “When I asked him how he would handle having lived through that night himself, it reminded him that as invincible as others may perceive you to be - you are yet a man, and still his _younger brother._ And are just as worthy of protection and being thought of as any other.”

 

“Ah.” 

 

Many times, beginning with the first steps of this journey, his own vulnerabilities had been driven home, forcing him to acknowledge them. He hadn’t been far off when he snapped at Loghain that he, Ferox, was already a dead man. It was this coming back to life thing that seemed harder than the ‘actual’ dying. For everything Zevran had ‘accidentally’ overheard that night, thankfully what Ferox said, that he might as well ‘make it official’... - or was it ‘make it stick this time’? - wasn’t to be repeated. Not that the actual words he said mattered, Ferox had intended to end the ache, until he saw it and heard it echoed in the elf... he hadn’t thought that he was really wanted. No, not thought... He had _hoped_ that he wasn’t really wanted, that it could be easy for once. There was one thing he should have learned from the entire journey - nothing was easy and that there was always an additional difficult step to take.

 

Since that moment of explosive light, what kept him moving forward was the sunlit path and the promise of a copper weathervane and some ground to muck about with Zevran. This little side journey seemed to be a needless delay, not getting either of them closer to the covered porch and glasses of mint tea. So he gave in and followed the path, letting it lead him forward.

 

Fergus and Alise came down for a camp style dinner, both unsurprised by the news that the next day they would leave. It took little thought to hand the family shield and sword to his brother - it was up to him to rebuild what had been lost, that which Ferox had safeguarded until his brother could take up the mantle. A small signet ring for his pinky was given to him, the family seal on it etched deeply in the carved stone, to replace the reproduction that Zevran had fabricated to use for letters in the interim, and with a pang he recognized it as their mother’s. He had wanted to protest, to say it belonged within the family, but Fergus said that if he was going to have an errant noble for a brother, that it would be wise if a ring in the official Ferelden registrar was in his possession. So it was added to the amulet and Morrigan’s ring, but he was glad that Zevran’s gift was something to wear openly and without pain, the initial bite of the needle notwithstanding. 

 

After Levi had sold as much of his wares as he could, predominantly seed stock he and his family had gathered from fields left untended and gone fallow during the two years of Blight, as well as a decent portion of preserved meats, they left. As they neared the Peak, Levi left, and there was some rearranging of gear. Ferox had never really noticed just how much Bodhan, and then Levi, had carried. Zevran refused to leave any of it, a sturdy travois quickly built, easy to drop for a fight if it should be necessary. Amaranthine’s regular patrols came across them and the guards recognized both, insisting on ‘helping’ - not that it was needed. Somewhat bemused by that, as in many ways, Ferox was no longer a noble of Ferelden, he still accepted anyway. One of the guards, a swarthy fellow that could pass as a brother, by the name of Edric chattered happily with Zevran. It took Ferox almost until they were at the city before he realized why the guard had been so familiar, as he was the husband of the pretty girl he and Zevran saw time to time bustling about. 

 

Edric took the time to thank Ferox personally and see them to the inn, for ending the Blight and saving his family by extension, saying that he had been part of a contingent at Denerim during the attack. That made him uncomfortable, yet not, as it was clear for people like those of Amaranthine - from guard to stable boy to farmhand - that it had needed to end. Zevran had told the young guard to come by and share a meal when he was off-duty, but the guard had sheepishly turned them down, saying that his wife would miss him, but that if they didn’t mind plain fare, they were welcome to join him at his home. With a great deal of pride and joy, Edric had shown his sweet wife, Moira, and their first child, a small bundle, shaped like a bean, named Elissa, off. When the infant was passed to him, Ferox ached, remembering a little boy looking up at him with the same sort of muddled curiosity and fascination. After that, neither Moira nor Edric had taken her from his arms, and Zevran had only leaned over to coo at her during the meal. Thanking them for more than their hospitality at the end of the night, though he doubted they realized that it was more than the sliver of welcome and peace they gave him, he and Zevran returned to the inn, to wait until the next ship could take them to Antiva City.

 

...

 

“I hate ships,” he mumbled at the prow. 

 

Zevran crossed his arms, leaning out and staring at the horizon. “Oh, I do not know, I have always found them pleasant. But then again, I often was in the rigging and too busy to be bored.”

Looking up at the mast he was near, “I can see that. I, however, should have packed the library from the Vigil, most of those books were Cousland volumes.” Ferox returned his gaze to the sea, rising on his toes, balancing as they ran into the waves, “I suppose I could put Brother Genitivi out of work, or at least give him competition on a history of the Fifth Blight. He’s probably still writing on the Ashes.”

 

“We have plenty of paper and inkstones, _amora_ , I see no reason not to,” turning to smile at him warmly. “And you have a translator here who could copy it into several languages. He has no such easy time. Might make a tidy profit.”

 

Fingering the ears of the hound who leaned into him, knowing fun was afoot, Ferox couldn’t stop the grin, “Although he comes with such high praise, even with his multiple languages, Horse always drools on the pages. You’d never make a profit that way.”

 

Waving a hand back and forth, “Ah yes, that distinct lack of opposable thumbs strikes again. Do not worry for I have two, quite useful, and opposable thumbs, that I can put to work.”

 

“Creative use too, if I recall correctly.” If Ferox kept this up, there would be rays from his own eyes soon enough. “So, tell me of these personalities, so I do not misstep as a yokel would fresh off the boat. Any yanking you do of my chain, I prefer be done in comfortable surroundings and in private,” rumbled as he stretched an arm out to drape across Zevran’s shoulders.

 

“No yanking, not on this. First thing will be to find my old master, and kill him. Next, his two allies, who, if they have not changed, will be easy enough for me to find. _You_ I would rather be closer to Ignacio, who will likely present you to a Council meeting. Or at least some rubbing of shoulders,” his head tipped back, eyes closed as he leaned his back against the railing. “I know that will chafe, for you and I both, but these are not the things one approaches with arms and armour on. A direct attack will not work, nor a sneak attack of the common sort. You will hold attention, as you do so very well, _mi hermoso corizon_ , while I slip into where is needed and do my deeds, leaving without a trace if luck is with me. Dazzle them with your country charm, and let them think you stupid if necessary.”

 

“Hrm. Well, umm...” Ferox scratched his head. “When I was a kid there was something that I got in trouble for...well, a very rural accent. Used ta make up stories ta enner’tain ev’one...’til Father caught me. An’ that thar was...sorta the end oft’it.” 

 

Zevran’s head slowly turned towards him, a brow creeping up to his hairline, “ _Amora,_ that does sound very amusing, and I should like very much to hear these stories - but do not _overplay_ it. Remember, this is a den of spies, murderers, actors, entrepreneurs and blood thirsty people we will be entering. If you sound so overly...unique...they will wonder why I did not kill you, just to put you out of _my_ misery.”

 

“Well, Earle’ll miss farmin’ rocks...I’m sure he’ll find somethin’ else. But his wife who up an’ r-u-n-n-o-f-t with’a cow was interestin’.”

 

“Think Alistair when we were talking about things that went over his head,” advising with a chuckle.

 

Ferox laughed, “Poor Alistair, even if he is king and all. Glad I’m not that sot. Bet he hasn’t figured out how it all happened yet.” A satisfied sigh, “You keep me ‘round because...hrm, gotta think about that one...nope, I got nuthin’ other than I make you laugh.”

 

A brown hand came up to cup his cheek, the thumb running over the bone, “No, I keep you around, _amora_ , because you make me feel safe in a way I have not ever felt before. You make me complete, _querido._ I am unafraid of anything other than losing you. Ferox, my beautiful _shem_ , you make me wish to be a person and embrace life fully, to be protected and protective. With you, I am accepted. With you, I am safe. With you, I am loved. With you, I can love, am allowed to love. With you, I am needed and can need. I can be weak, I can be strong, I can be whatever it is I am, without fear of being rejected or tossed aside for my natural imperfections.”

 

Turning his head, as he always did, Ferox kissed the palm pressed to his face, “Always, just as you do the same for me, love. I would have it no other way.”

 

“Good, then hopefully you will forgive me for having to hare off while the initial matters are settled with the Guild. No one will touch you, you are a Warden, and the one who ended the Blight. At least, not with the current politics going on. So, we must head off some of those who might wish to regain prestige by having an ‘impossible’ contract fulfilled and punishing an ‘errant’ Crow,” his jaw was given a light squeeze. “I will not have to leave long in all likelihood, just a few hours here and there. To be sure a few people still owe me favours, and I will reward them for those paid back.” Winking, “Promotions will be in order. At least three. There are fifteen Crow Masters in Antiva City alone, whose cells control most of the districts with a few neutral areas. Another twenty cover the rest of Antiva and Rivain, usually four or five Crow Masters in Llomerynn, and forty over the area of the Free Marches and portions of Nevarra... I am unsure the number in Tevinter, but they have to be very judicious there. Orlais... Almost thirty I would guess... However, the only ones that we have to worry about are those in Antiva City and those who are close by... Rivain and Llomerynn.” Ferox could practically see the lists and plans spooling out suddenly. “Hopefully killing two or three Masters will cause enough of a disturbance in the force[a], hmn?”

 

“Not knowing what the divide is about, are you choosing one side over another? Or does it matter in this case?”

 

Face scrunching to one side, “Hmn, how good is your Wicked Grace? _We_ are the wildcards. Cause enough upheaval and they will look at us - cause too much, and we will be crushed. But if just enough pressure is put, then at worst, I will have to become a Crow Master - which I have avoided for nineteen years for good reason. I _detest_ politics.”

 

“Something to avoid then.” Good thing he avoided that crown or any other duty.

 

“Ugh, and it would require more time away from the plantation, or spent alone. I would have to be seeing to at least a cell, likely two or three, just so that we were in a position to make sure that we were more trouble than we are worth...” Zevran’s hand fell away finally, grunting, staring to the northeast.

 

Still he was worried, “There is still choice, we can still leave at the first landing. Do nothing more than what you want to do.” Ferox said he’d be happy in a barn without a sovereign to his name and he meant it.

 

Zevran looked at him, “No. They will come eventually as the tides shift. As I said, _amora_ , it is best to face them on our terms rather than theirs.”

 

“Choice of ground is always preferable and I am with you.”

 

The smile was fast, as it frequently was, “And we have several advantages. Your impressive self, a vigilant set of ears, the whore who raised me, my daughter and her clan, and Ignacio. But him, they will expect. They will not expect a _pintore_ to do anything.”

 

Having to blink for a few moments, Ferox tried to take in the extra information. And what came out of his mouth was, “Daughter?”

 

“Ah...yes.” Sheepish in a way that Ferox knew at one point would have been nervous instead, “During an earlier rebellious period in my youth, I hared off to find my mother’s people. I had to find help, so turned to my Zama’s clan, ah...the whore who raised me. She is a _pintore_ \- the apostates I mentioned, you recall?” Clearing his throat, Zevran sidled into him, seeking contact. “Crossing the Drylands alone is a most unwise thing to do. So, I found Zamitie’s clan, with some help, and they agreed to take me to the areas that the Dalish commonly travel. The bargain for making use of such things was to get the woman who had taken the mantle of chieftain with child... That she is my sister by adoption is...meaningless to them. Our blood is not the same. So, I have a daughter, Anicada - her name means ‘this is a place of strength,’” the last was said with pride. “I keep her first baby-tooth that she lost, in my belt,” touching a particular round affectionately.

 

Another “Ah,” as Ferox considered something new, it was like finding a loose tooth - sometimes surprising, sometimes painful, often times just tender and unexpected.

 

Zevran hugged Ferox’s arm to him, “Neither Rinna nor Taliesin knew of her, or much at all, other than I had spent almost a year with the horseclans and returned with two horses that were taken by our Crow Master as payment for sparing my life.”

 

“You often do that?” Ferox nearly kicked himself as he added, further clarifying his stupidity, “Run off, I mean.”

 

“Only once before. The second time, was not precisely running off...but not dying during a job or returning after success...ehhh.... Only the once. Never have I failed a job before, nor do I intend to ever do so again,” shrugging. “Too much to live for. The rebellion happened because the gloves had been taken from me and it eventually drove me to that state, though it took years. I had wished to regain some connection to my mother. I have her bow, it was given to me - more like thrown at me along with some other items, as though to force me to leave and not plague them like some ghost or demon... My own grandmother took one look at me and covered her eyes, refusing to speak. I do not know why. A week there was all I could tolerate of children screaming and running away from me, with only the Keeper speaking to me tersely. But I have her bow, and it is a fine bow indeed. The bow of a huntress. Gaining what I sought, or thought I had sought, I quickly went in search of Fewrlin’s clan, so that I could return to the flock. Apparently,” rueful, “it was the only place I belonged.”

 

“And who is Fewrlin, again?”

 

“Ah...oh...my sister. Sort of sister? Anicada’s mother,” the information was hard to absorb, but he took it that Zevran had never discussed these facts with others before. “Her name means ‘fire-blood’ and it is...true to say the least. We got along well enough, but neither of us wants much to do with each other, but there is a debt of family there. If I need help, and it does not threaten the clan, she must give it, as I have no clan of my own.”

 

“These names, they all have meaning?”

 

Zevran’s head tilted back to look up at him, “Yes. It is the way of the _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_. Zamitie means one of vital power. Ah...she named me by their traditions. The literal is...” His lover actually _blushed_ , much to his surprise. “‘You are gold’, but for a less literal...’you are precious’... Zama tends to be...eccentric in her gifts. Fewrlin for her shock of red hair at birth and fiery temper, so I was told. And her pet names leave something to be desired. I am far too old to continue to be called the golden kitten.”

 

“Too old, perhaps, but the name is still appropriate. I look forward to meeting this woman of eccentric gifts, as I believe I owe her a thank you.”

 

“Why would you thank her?” quizzical.

 

Tugging Zevran to him, to face him, “For you, of course, love.”

 

It was like an explosion, as it often was, that unguarded, completely open smile, the one that was only ever directed at him, or things he had caused. Everything was easy under that light. It couldn’t wipe away the darkness in the path trod behind him, but it shoved away any and all shadows around him.


	5. Chapter 5

It should be written, or perhaps it should be let known, that Antiva, at first glance, hurts the eyes. Badly. The clothing made any sane visitor long to strike their head into the nearest wall...although they probably walked into the wall on accident wondering how all of those colours and patterns actually ‘matched’. The profusion of everything was...overwhelming. A sensory deluge. And if it wasn’t the colours or patterns it was the _lack_ of clothing. Or the profusion of tattoos. Or piercings, in one case, with what was obviously a woman with no less than a series of at least five hoops through her bottom lips, three spheres on the upper, some very large upside down ‘u’ from her septum, and that was when he had to look away as he had stumbled.

Muttering to no one, “One country bumpkin comin’ up, no acting required.” Apparently this was ‘normal’, reminding himself not to stare anymore.

“Ah,” Zevran’s hand on his elbow guided him through an intricate and fast-paced dance that was called ‘walking down the street’, swinging him to the side and narrowly avoiding a man with a basket balanced on his head, “look - food!”

Forced to keep pace, which he managed somehow, Horse having to weave and hop around happily as though it were all a game, Ferox was taken to some cart where some sort of...smell...was coming up. His Antivan had been improving - outside the cabin, it was all Zevran spoke to him unless it was vital information, so he could _almost_ follow the rapid-fire string of words that had him accepting an odd roll of... _something_ that was passed to him. 

“It is good, just, mph, hold it like so,” Zevran demonstrated with the odd flat bread, with the meat and vegetables in it and some odd white sauce, before taking a bite. 

From the faces and the suddenly orgasmic sound his lover made, Ferox thought it would have to be good. Muttering, “And here I thought those noises were...fer other things,” he gamely took a bite. Except for the sauce, which tasted strangely of mint and cucumber, it was good. 

Cucumbers were rare and generally had to be grown in a glass house, they most likely could be found at a lady’s summer tea, yet here, they were part of street food, which would mean that they were not a luxury, so he was undecided as his earlier and very rare experiences were different than the current one. He liked the flat bread, and while chewing he thought of lots of other camp food that would have been tasty with it. 

Watching Zevran wolf down his meal and order another, his face alight with contented avarice, “You’d think you were never fed in Ferelden.”

Tongue flicking out to lick away some of the sauce from the corner of his mouth, Zevran paused mid-bite, “I have an odd relationship with food, _querido._ I will eat whatever I must, but my enjoyment only comes from something that has taste beyond dirt. Unless it is made with the spice of love, then that is different. Like when you would make those toasted oatcakes. Bland to an Antivan palate, but because you made them, I found them tasty.”

“I did say at the time that they were better with apples and bacon, but we didn’t have any of those. Garlic and thyme are good too, but we were up in the mountains and didn’t have them either.” In a somewhat surprised laugh as if it just occurred to him, “The bear fat was good though, lent a rather pungent flavour.” Licking a palm that had caught a dollop of sauce, having decided that it wasn’t bad after all, just very different, “I swear you went after bears just to get more of it. Or for practice riding the dragons.”

“Hmn, yes it was,” groaning around another mouthful and handing chunks off to Horse. “Mmn, we should hire a cart to take us to Zama’s. It is much too far to walk as the sun will only rise higher, and that would not be good to arrive with you exhausted from the heat.”

Ferox was leery - the cart was open but for a folding awning and was drawn by two men on foot. He almost felt bad except the cart went _fast_ , far faster than he had been expecting. He tried to crane his neck this way and that way to see what was around him, but every building was three or even five stories high at least, whitewashed buildings gave way to colourful ones, small balconies with pots of so many different things that he just didn’t know the names of. Shouting and calling, laughter and angry voices were a clangor louder than any battle, the entire air pulsing with it. 

Bemusedly, “I’m beginning to believe that half of Thedas resides in this city alone.” 

“Hmn - two and a half million people if one counts the outlying vineyards and plantations and small farms,” said with a flick of a hand as Horse scooted on the narrow floorboards looking around as well. 

“Oh yes, the imaginary plantations, can’t forget about those. Still...I can’t imagine any city that size or how one would supply it.”

Zevran pointed to one side of a plaza with huge fountains in the center, to a swath of trees and a hedgewall, “You see that? It is a _jardine_ , they were planted after the first Blight that took Antiva. There are many of them throughout the city, a few coppers gets you a basket to pick your own fruit and vegetables.” He then pointed to the rooftops with their outwards sloping roofs, “Those tiles, water and rain goes down them into drains which go to the rain barrels, and the rooftops, they are hollow on the inside, a square like a battlement’s walls. Planter boxes and rain barrels, then between the interior balconies, people hang their laundry, while on the lowest floor is where the building’s baths and toilets usually reside in the less affluent areas. As well as a composting heap. Not everyone grows their own things, and much is brought in from the outlying areas to be sold in mobile carts, or in the bazaars. Most people have at least a few plants for things like tomatoes, or peppers, or herbs as they require little room.”

Nodding, “The word _jardine_ I know, but some of those appear to be trees, not _just_ a garden.”

“Small orchards, the ground is terraced, trees on the outskirts, and multiple layers of plants - I am not a farmer, _querido_ , I only know so much and what I have observed,” smiling, knowingly tempting him with things to look over and be fascinated by.

“Still, that many people would make for extensive organized farming outside of the city. Not to mention a plentiful water supply. Is the compost picked up for use on the farms?” Many questions wanted to be asked, but Ferox started with what Zevran had already mentioned. 

“It depends, there are those who come by and pay the owners of the building by weight for the compost.” Ticking his fingers off, “There are underground pipes, many wells and cisterns, and a large aquifer, and several springs in varying places - perhaps ten Denerims could fit here...? I would have to see a map to be sure. And as I said - plantations, _querido._ There are many. This is the time of day for food errands when farmers and supply carts come to drop off their wares. The hills are for terraced farms for the grains, we have at least eight varieties...”

Repeating as if trying to picture it, “Terraced farms up hillsides. Is flat land uncommon here...difficult to obtain? I mean, from the maps, I wouldn’t have thought that. Or is it something to do with where the water is located?”

“Water, use of space - terracing enables more land to be used, and to be used wisely. The flatlands are mostly horseclan territory, or for herding,” he made little gestures, eyes closed, his ears twitching in time to the song of the city. “Since we are ringed by steep hills - we call them mountains, _you_ would call them hills - on two sides, the bay on the third, with only one area completely open, things must be made use of and be orderly, _amora._ When we have settled in a little I will take you to see it. Ah...can you ride?” 

“In case you haven’t noticed, I am always cautious when answering a question when you ask if I can do something...often because my idea of whatever it is, is different from yours. Yes, I have ridden a horse. Yes, I can tell one what direction to go and how fast to do it. Yes, I can keep my seat when jumping or galloping through a forest.” A hand to Horse’s head, one who had been quite excited when these things happened, scratching behind his ears. “Now, can I do tricks and stand on my head? No. That said, it’s been at least two years since I’ve had anything to do with such an animal...and I would guess that any horse you may have spotted in Ferelden was a poor imitation of any real Antivan one.” 

Laughter and relief, “Good, then you will not likely be falling out of the saddle when I show you around the outlying areas. But the only horse I saw in Ferelden is this good ser beside us. Oxen, donkeys, yes. Horses? No.”

“Most went with the army to Ostagar and shall we say...didn’t come back either. They weren’t very common to begin with. A few nobles had one or two, the King certainly, but they were never plentiful. Oxen are more useful for farmers, donkeys smaller and easier to care for. If we had figured out a way to have sheep or goats pull something...well, it would have been done. The Chasind use dog sleds in the snow, a lead mabari is quite the catch, as they are very intelligent and can avoid soft spots in the ice flows. But horses...you’d have to be very cozy to the King to have access to one or know an Orlesian or two.”

The cart slowed, and beside him Zevran straightened, “Well, while Orlesian horses are not positively abysmal, you will see true horseflesh in short order. Hmn, you know, it occurs to me...I did not send word, but then again, I never do. She always seems to know...”

They were in a section of brightly painted buildings, and the one before them was a vibrant shade of royal blue, with a deep crimson door, black ironwork holding unlit lanterns on either side. Unloading the cart with Zevran, not worried over those items that would be brought by porters later, he followed. An odd tingle touched his skin as Zevran opened the onion topped door, soft chimes ringing as they entered. It was dim, the light diffuse and sent through strange lamps with shades, and thick pillows were everywhere, a couch that was just several rectangular cushions piled atop each other and a long table with books that were open. In them were wild depictions of artwork, that Ferox almost stopped to look at until he recognized some of Zevran’s smell. It hung in the air like incense, but there were many other things entwined with it, and he found himself stopping, eyes closed to breathe it in deeply, trying and failing to separate the different scents.

From nearby a song of a beaded curtain came, “ _Gatito!_ Oh, my boy, I knew you would be here soon! Aiesh, filthy boots and stinky socks off! And lock the door - no interruptions, I have already had to turn away several who wished more than piercings, I do not want to be bothered further by others for today.”

“ _Si_ , Zama, a moment,” it was chuckled, but sounded very young and Zevran’s pack dropped to the floor.

Coming out of his daze, Ferox blinked, copying the motions, and tugged off his boots to set them by the door like his lover did. When he finally looked up as he straightened, he found that he had to tilt his head back, and back, and what felt like back some more. The woman was _tall_ , and was easily the tallest he had ever seen. Patrician features that made her more handsome than beautiful were only lightly adorned compared to many he had seen, ‘just’ a glittering stud tucked tight to a nostril, with a thin chain going back to an ear. Hair the same startling red as her front door blended impossibly with the robe of her dress, and what he took at first for a heavily patterned undershirt was her skin, revealed by a deep ‘v’ between the overlapping wrap. And she chimed with every breath, what he took for a cloak of odds and ends with red streamers was her hair, and her outstretched hand to him was strong and long. 

“You are welcome here, _mu’poushu_ ,” her fingers danced and weaved in some way, beckoning and drawing him closer and he realized he was held in eyes the shade of wet green slate. “Come, let me have a look at you,” and there was no thought, or desire, to resist as he took the steps to be within reach of that outstretched hand, which cupped his chin, long fingers wrapping around his jaw. Her other hand made a pass over his crown, starting from his hairline and smoothing back gently, making him feel like a small child standing at his mother’s chair as she petted him for being a good boy, while the wide mouth broadened into an easy smile, “I see _mi gatito’s_ mark all over you, so then it must be because of you that I have sensed such joy from him. Many thanks and blessings upon you for that.”

The words were simple enough, but to sense someone from so far away, or Zevran’s mark on him...the earring? That was in plain sight. “You’re welcome?” And he thought he was going to thank her. “I’ve done what I can...but it seems that lately he does more to take care of me.” 

Ferox had a very distinct feeling that this world...which was not his world, was a strange place, one where he didn’t know where his own place was in it...a foreign and dazzling place while he was cut adrift. Having come from where his path was set, even when he was spun around and shoved in a random direction towards the Blight, the terrain was familiar. Although the new road went into places and situations he hadn’t been or even considered, he knew the landmarks, knew he had, or at least could pretend he had, authority and power. With that perception of who he was, also came many things he did not want, people and tasks he could no longer carry, duties he was too tired to carry out, even the little ones of overseeing Howe’s keep, soldiers, and the keep’s inhabitants, were too much. Here, he was just himself, which was what he had wanted, if only to heal before picking up another task. But this freedom from responsibility, from the massive weight of Ferelden, its peoples, the ruined land, and worse, the unthinkable - if the Blight could not have been stopped there, it would have _spread_ \- was frightening. Never in his life had he had this chance before. Other than at Soldier’s Peak, but that was nothing more than a single season that still had the preparation for and the overhanging knowledge that he would return to the familiar, if unwanted, trek towards the Archdemon.

Lips pressed to his forehead, the hand that held his chin slid down his neck to his shoulders, pulling him in close for an enveloping embrace, “New life can be overwhelming, _mu’poushu_ , but that is why you have those who help you find context, guarding you until you are able to seek it on your own. Let it go young one, and let us wash the salt of the road from your throat.” Pulling away she thumped him heartily in the chest, “And get you something that will not make you bake! _Gatito_ \- Sa’id’s things may fit him, find him a robe, before I chase you from the kitchen that I see you edging towards!”

“But I smell cookies!” there was a comical protest, as around the broad shoulders, shoulders that were almost as wide as his own, he saw that his lover had been stopped near the doorway, nose in the air. 

“Clothes first, cookies second,” green eyes were rolled. “Guests must be made at home, you know this - now shoo!” Ferox was then tugged to the couch, hands pressing down on his shoulders, making him sit, her palms slipping over his arms to grab his wrists and flip his hands palms up, “Now, let me take a look at this shadow I see in your blood while he goes and is a good boy.”

Trying to understand what shadow she could mean, the answer was suddenly obvious. “Taint. Darkspawn.”

She squinted an eye at him, “I know what the Taint is, _mu’poushu_. What I wish to see, is how far it has eaten your soul. You are young and he is not quite middle-aged, it would be best if you lasted as long as possible before you only have shreds. For both your sakes, neh? There is a reason some Antivan Wardens’ minds do not go so quickly. Such as my kind. Now hush, and tell me your name. Your real name.”

“Ferox Cousland.”

An odd dismissive sound puffed through pursed lips, “No. Your real name. _Your_ name. Oh why do the young resist so much?”

“Ferox A. Cousland." Frowning at her, "No middle name, my parents couldn’t decide so they would say ‘a placeholder’.”

Zamitie’s grip tightened around his wrists, but it wasn’t painful, her thumbs lining up with the veins. “No. _Your_ name, the name that is in your mind and heart. Not some trifling thing on parchment that I cannot read nor wish to learn to.”

Ferox protested, “But, ‘Algere’ was given as an insult by the weapons’ master, ‘to describe my temper’, he said. Apparently it was...is amusing when combined with ‘Ferox’.”

An approving snort, “Foolish man then, for he gave you power unwittingly with what he thought an insult. Now, Ferox Algere, look into my eyes.” Her voice suddenly became hypnotic, irresistible, and he was pulled in deep, the slate swirling with green lightning, barely discernible, but he could not look away. “How long have you carried the shadow, Ferox Algere?”

“Nearly three years,” the answer came from far off, and he knew it was his voice, but it didn’t feel like it was.

“Hmn,” was all she said and they were silent for a long time, him unable to look away and her peering deep into him as though examining something intricate through a fine lens. 

A headache that he hadn’t known was there, a fog that he was only aware of for its easing, and there was a strange pressure beating in his veins. As though there was too much blood, yet it wasn’t painful. By the time she pulled back he had an overwhelming need to use the jakes and he was drenched with foul smelling sweat, and he was extremely hungry and thirsty. He wasn’t precisely wobbly, but he still found that Zamitie was holding him by the arm, guiding him through a room he made no note of, in too much need for the facilities, and was taken to a small room and pointed at an oblong pit in the ground, lined with porcelain, that he quickly made use of after she left. Sick from both ends.

“There is a basket for your clothes beside the sink. First pull the red rope, as you squat - it will clean you. Then the green to take the waste away,” Zevran had popped his head in. “Zama is making us something to eat, but you smell disgusting, _amora._ Like a darkspawn, so, let us get that off of you as well, hmn?”

“Ugg. It’s like I hugged...licked that Mother...Laryn...and if I can smell it, it must be bad.”

Zevran winced, “It is bad, I am sorry _querido_ , but it is actually _worse_ than Laryn.”

Ferox quickly did as instructed, yelping and nearly jumping as water splashed on his nethers from a hidden spout, the second rope then whisking everything in the hole away. His clothes were taken from him, wadded up and thrown into the basket and Zevran pressed him to a tiled thing with another spout above, shaped like a fish, that as soon as knobs were tapped, warm water jetted out. Businesslike brown hands were already lathering something up and scrubbing him down, and Ferox added his own to them until the water in the upraised lips of the square was brackish. The hunger was overwhelming though and once the worst was off of him, he could barely remain still as he and Zevran got him dried off. Or as the smell of intense, or at least intense for him, scented food wafted in from the other room, his limbs left shaking as he struggled into soft navy pants with a white robe-shirt- _thing_ edged in turquoise and tied off with a wide cerulean sash. His hair was left hanging and dripping until Zevran made him stoop to have it bound up in one of those fluffy towels before he was allowed to stagger into the next room. What looked like the biggest feast - and still wasn’t enough - was spread across another low table, a large circle, and Zamitie was squatting to place huge plates on it. Ferox would have fallen upon it if he hadn’t desperately held on to the good manners Nan and his mother had drilled into his head.

But Zamitie waved a hand, “Eat, _mu’poushu_. You are a guest, and your body has been purged, if not for one reason, then for another, do not hold yourself back, or you will become ill.” Elegantly she made herself comfortable, as did Zevran, “It is good that I see you did not lose all your ability to cook. I hear Ferelden is - faugh! What?” Ferox saw her nearly spit out something, “ _Gatito_! What did you _do_?”

“I did not put chilis in it, or onions,” Ferox tried to use his fingers the way his lover did, but Zevran simply handed him a spoon as he spoke to the apostate. “Best not to throw him into the deep end when the most flavour we had was from bear grease, or the occasional berries or herbs I could find.”

Taking the spoon gratefully and scooping up some of the odd looking dish - _Without onions or chilis!_ \- onto some of the flat bread, Ferox muttered, “Salt, when available, but I do not want to get him started on that rant again.” A sigh found its way free as he tasted, although inhaled was likely a better description, the food in his hand.

It could only be described as a cross between horror and outrage, “My boy is so skinny because of _that_?! _Gatito_ \- why did you not send word then? I would have put something on a boat to you immediately, no person should have to live like that!” Then she made a face at the large bowls of rice and myriad other things and rose to grab a smaller tray with several small bowls and a medium sized plate, “How you survived at all...but I cannot eat this as is. It makes my stomach turn.”

She then proceeded to take portions from each of the plates to put on hers while they ate directly from the large dishes, and sprinkled some sort of red sauce on one end, green sauce on another, yellow on yet another, and something oddly _blue_ on the last. Zevran whimpered and snatched the bowls of sauce from her as she snorted at him, but Ferox could only focus on his own meal. It was different, far more so than the street vendor’s folded pouch offerings. Rice and meat and vegetables and what seemed to be rehydrated fruits was in one, another was laden with some odd fluffy yellow grain that he couldn’t identify, large chunks of meat, heavily tasting of red wine and herbs, with nuts all over it, the flat bread he had enjoyed was everywhere and slathered with garlic and butter. Smaller bowls of olives, he recognized them, but had never eaten them before, were stuffed with various things. Biting them in half revealed a clove of garlic, another, a piece of pungent cheese, another a musky vegetable he couldn’t identify, until basically his palate was overwhelmed trying to put names to things and simply gave up, telling himself that it was food, plentiful, filling, warm and didn’t taste bad. 

Rocking back when he thought he could eat no more, the haze of need had receded, and he found himself releasing a burp and patting his stomach, too satiated and drowsy to do anything else. “Dear Maker... No wonder you flinched when it was ‘lamb’ and peas again...”

“Wolf is not bad, but to call it ‘lamb’ was a crime,” Zevran grunted, eating slowly. “I did not have time to make anything else though, however the length of time Zama and you were locked in trance was sufficient to manage this much.”

Zamitie was feeding Horsie by hand who licked and picked away small morsels from her fingers gently, “It is good that we went deep, there was much to cleanse. Incomplete, but that can be worked on.”

“What do you mean?” It actually was a question Ferox had wanted to ask when she said that the name ‘Algere’, which had been put on him, gave him power. However, the question encompassed everything he wanted to know since they walked in the red door.

“It is a poison, this Taint, and to touch it, you had to be open and give me the...keys...no, the map to your soul. Inside you, it touches everything,” she touched her forehead, eyes, over her breast, belly, loin and back. “In a healthy person, the soul and body are combined, inseparable. Between them they create the mind and the heart. The heart has more of the soul, the mind has more of the body. This Taint, this poison, it eats at the connections, trying to devour the soul. As this is consumed, the blood flowing in your veins also carries these things, touching your innards and changing them. Fouling them. For a strong, young man or woman, they could last thirty of those years without losing the connections, maintaining at least some threads. Some sight, thought that is still their own, a heart that is able to love. And then another five or ten years before those last links are nearly gone and they are driven to seek out the mindsong that is the only thing that resembles what their bodies truly need. The...’Calling’ I believe it is referred to. Being as I am, I tend many Wardens, even if they are Crows. To see a spirit sicken is agony for me. It runs counter to all I am, _mu’poushu_.” Glass cups, clear and dyed in a flurry of colours, edged in silver designs of leaves were filled with a deep coloured tea, were sipped from after being placed before them. “Them I heal as well as I may, but _mi gatito dorado’s_ mark is all over your soul. As you sicken, his heart will as well, for his spirit longs only for you. So you must be purged regularly, the Taint cannot be erased, but its damage can be lessened.”

Zevran didn’t say anything, just sipped his tea quietly, relaxing as he leaned against Ferox’s shoulder. 

“I haven’t heard the song since...” Making a face as he tried to remember, not that Ferox had thought about it, it just wasn’t there, “After waking up from slaying the dragon...Archdemon. Not even when sleeping anymore. Before that, I heard it every night since the Joining.”

“New Wardens do not hear the mindsong of the Tainted, unless the mindsong is strong. Like an Archdemon’s. Anything with Taint or strong connection to the Fade will hear it, but that which has Taint, no matter how thin and undeveloped it is, will hear it a thousandfold. Many of the older Wardens sought their Calling, unable to resist, pulled forward and deep and down.” Broad shoulders were shrugged, the ropes and braids and loose swaths of her hair singing with the gesture, “Even I felt it from this far away. Some _pintores_ nearly went mad, those whose abilities are tied tighter to the Fade. But as you age in this poison, your body steeping in it, you will hear the whispers, a thin thread, that will increase until it is your time.”

Zevran mused aloud, “Uldred and the maleficarum of the Circle. Perhaps the rash upwelling stemmed from it?”

“Do you remember when you heard the elephants speaking?” Zamitie countered. 

Beside him, his lover hissed a hand clapping over an ear in remembered discomfort, “It was so low! It would not stop, they talk and talk and talk...until I thought I would go mad or rip my ears from my head... But I did not know it was the elephants. Not until I went to the menagerie and made out what seemed a language... Then I had to teach myself to not listen, though any time near them for long, hurts.”

“That is what it is like, the Archdemon’s song, for those with a mage’s talent.” Zamitie nibbled at a fig drizzled with honey. 

Ferox grunted, “After the night Riordan talked to us, it was so loud. It was the only thing I could hear and other real conversations were annoying. I remember being so angry, nearly in a rage...I wanted to shout at everyone to shut up, because I couldn’t hear anything else for the overwhelming noise and constant ‘talking’. I would have done anything to end it...probably said things I shouldn’t, as it was difficult to think of anything else other than the clamour in my mind.” Zevran’s hand slid over his thigh and he gave the warm brown hand a comforting squeeze, “Was like being back in the Deep Roads without being trapped underground. Would have hated to have been a mage...or Riordan... It was bad enough.”

The information put Riordan’s mad and desperate dash to try and kill the Archdemon in a whole new light. The man had been crazed by the unending cacophony. Ferox doubted he himself would have thought clearly in that state. In fact, he _hadn’t_ been thinking clearly, the only thing that kept him remotely sane was beside him. He couldn’t conceive of how Alistair had managed to be in Denerim and not respond beyond mounting a defense. True, Alistair was Joined before the Blight started. Stoic though he was, Loghain twitched regularly...but again, he was Joined during the Blight same as _him_. Little did Ferox know just how cruel he had been when handing down that bit of ‘justice.’ And with no one to purge him, the general would hear it even still, or at least much sooner, and it would eat at him until there was only the deep need to go do the Deep Roads and slaughter darkspawn in an attempt to silence the song. 

Realizing what was in store for him, the pieces falling into place making a very frightening picture, he was horrified. Breathing, “Maker, I don’t want to go underground again.” Ferox pressed the amulet against his chest, adamantly, “ _I did not choose this path_.”

“Then do not, _amora_ ,” Zevran lifted his hand, kissing his knuckles. “I am fully capable of ending any misery you have and freeing you from such chains. In the sunshine where it is warm and safe, perhaps a beach? But that is not for a long time, _querido_.”

“I will keep the mindsong from you as much as I can, but I only have so many years myself. Yet _mi gatito_ is resourceful, he would find you another similar who could do something,” she was serene and very assured that what she said was true, while so casually discussing her eventual demise. “Why must so many men believe that they must do as all others do? We have Wardens amongst my people, and we certainly do not go to any such Deep Roads. We have a great gathering and feast and then when our goodbyes are said, the Warden whose time has come, goes to sleep, and does not wake up.”

“That would be a more welcome end, song or no, the weight of the stone is too much...just stepping off the Tower that night would have been preferable to chasing any creature underground.”

Zevran grinned, “Crows usually die of other things before their Callings come time. But those who do make it so long, usually go to a good brothel and do not come out but on a stretcher!”

Ferox couldn’t help laughing, as the thought of dying of, or rather in, a pleasured exhaustion, pulled him away from dangerous places, “No brothel, please. More than I can handle is already here.”

Zamitie rolled her eyes, “Of course that is the way you would wish to go, _gatito_. Take the Joining when you are old, just for a chance at free service until you die of exhaustion? But, at least your smile would have to be chiseled from your face.”

“Wardens who are going to their Calling get freebies for usually a week or two...not that they last that long...” Zevran explained, rubbing his chin. “It is Antiva’s way of saying ‘thank you for your service’.”

“ _Gatito_ , you forgot the second part - ‘so let us service you’,” a red eyebrow arched high on her forehead. “Vendors, inns, brothels, anything is open to a Warden at that time of their life. Without them, we would not have a country that gives us so much. I do not know the circumstances of your Joining, _mu’poushu_ , but even so, you have my thanks. What affects one country, affects all, though few see it. And so Antivans are far from an ungrateful lot, so no matter where you go, you do have a place to come if it nears your time. Remember that, _mu’poushu_.”

The humour still in his eyes, even as he sobered, “I’m not going back. I really don’t want to do anymore...I don’t want an arling or bann, or even a terynir to care for...frell, I didn’t even want to be King or Prince Consort when given the chance.”

“She would have froze your cock off, _querido_ , take it from me,” it was fervent and gold eyes went to the ceiling. “And that would be a crime.”

Ferox squeezed the brown hand resting on his thigh again, “Nope, I’m holding out for an imaginary plantation, even if it needs to have stumps dug out and the promised fish pond dug by hand and the land bare of buildings or orchard.”

“ _La Villa Bonita_? I went out to see to a birthing there, it is lovely as always, your housekeeper has done well, and your overseer has not been a taskmaster, things are stable,” Zamitie waved a hand. “Perhaps two months ago? I try to see it every month, to make sure _mi gatito’s_ lands are safe, to check that there are no rots or blights on the plants, that the slaves are healthy, and test the protective charms. But it sometimes is not easy to go too far from the city, or my clansmen would seek to hie me off to freedom. I have lived too longin city ways to return to my nomad soul. Much to my sadness, it limits how often I can ride, but if I sense them too close, and their shaman senses me - then they would come to raid and rescue me now that I have long since been free of slavery. So I only see them when they come to the city. It is a sad thing.”

There was still too much information. Yes, he had heard that Zevran would miss him when the Calling pulled him away, that it would break him... He wasn’t ready to think what that meant. Ferox knew what it meant, but not what it really meant. That something that was an insult was part of his ‘real’ name... That there was a real plot of land for him to tend, but the scope of it hadn’t set in, granted it had yet to be viewed... Who knew if his idea of a farm was anything like what was here...? After all the idea of a city was much smaller and he had been to Orlais as a boy, and he didn’t remember anything like this. That Zevran wouldn’t make him go to the Deep Roads again when he heard the Call, when the pull of the Taint, that frelling song came back, shifted the ground under his feet like an entire hillside giving way. Then on top of that, a clan kidnapping, slavery, and freedom? There was too much, and as fast as Ferox could make neat stacks trying to prioritize, something new came in. For each question asked there were more to ask because the answers he received caused even more... All stacking on the ones from before. Ferox couldn’t keep up, and felt that an eye socketneeded a vigorous rubbing to help him focus.

“Shh, _ma’poushu_ , your tension roils, both of you go to bed, this large fellow can help me clean the dishes, and perhaps some of the street littles would like to see his handsome self,” said as she took the hound’s great head in both hands, to touch her nose to his, receiving a canine, tongue lolling, smile. “The House will be too busy trying to process the information that you are here and arguing amongst themselves as to which faction’s views are correct. Both of you rest and recover from your long journey. Tomorrow or the next day is plenty soon enough, likely too soon, to see to meeting them.”

With that dismissal Zevran got up, tugging Ferox to follow, pausing to hug Zamitie around the shoulders and lean down to kiss her cheek, hanging on tightly for several long minutes as she squeezed his arm to her breast. 

Turning he snagged Ferox’s hands, walking backwards, “Now that your eyes are not fixed upon food, let me show you my Zama’s home.” He pointed with his head, “In other homes, this would be the atrium, but Sa’id bought the townhouse behind this one and it is maintained by a baker. Mostly he wished to have the intervening alleyway as private, and expand his atrium. So, that is why this place is so tall.” Ferox looked up, seeing a ceiling several stories above his head, a long internal balcony making a large ‘u’ around three sides, leading to doorways. “There is a room for arms and armour, I think he always wished I would move in full time while he was still alive to dote upon me, but its floors are waxed wood for practice bouts. Then there is his library, Zama’s weaving room, and several bedrooms. And a very large bath. You will like that I hope, it has a tub big enough for four! Two other rooms that are storage, and that is my Zama’s upstairs. We will see that in a moment.”

Zevran kissed both of Ferox’s hands, one after the other, dropping one so that he could point, 

“This main room, that was once the atrium, is where she cooks and eats. Big for one person, but somehow, still cozy I have always thought. Lots of room for a little boy to run around in.”

Pointing to the door they had originally come through, “Back there is her Work room and the area her clients wait to be seen. It takes up nearly all of what was once the first floor of the townhouse. There -” pointing to the first of three doors were set, “- is the bathroom where you spent some minutes. The middle door leads to the garden and rain barrels, and where her horses are stabled. And mine, Medorid. The other door is the pantry. Nothing too interesting in there. Now, up these stairs,” tugging him once again, the sturdy wood jutting out opposite the side of where the cook space was, “we will find her room first. Then the salle, like I said, then our room. We can explore all this later, but I just wanted to point them out for later, so you would not feel lost hopefully.”

“I’m already lost, Zevran,” a wry grin finding its way onto his face. “But you’re here so I’m not too worried about it yet. But by all means, blindfold me and spin me around some more.” Rumbling amusement, “I could be wrong, but I think I’m beginning to be accustomed to being disorientated.”

Zevran yanked him to him as soon as they got to the top of the stairs, “Then the only thing you have to remember the placement of, is where we have a bed. And possibly where the facilities are.” He pointed once more, “Unless someone is in the tub, and if it is myself, I do not care, so you should not either, use the one up here.”

And then they were in another room, the green of forests darkening towards the ceiling, which was an intricately carved piece of artwork. Zevran closed the door, and stripped out of his travel clothes, hopping on the bed with its raised platform and gauzy curtain that hung from the ceiling. With a flick the netting was loosened, and he waited for Ferox to remove his borrowed finery. Noticing it finally beyond the colours, the silk was thick but not heavy, smelling richly of something, again, one of those things he couldn’t identify, but it didn’t matter, not anymore. 

Everything laid out in its place, Ferox turned to the bed and gave it a funny look. Although hetried to figure it out, nothing he came up with made any sense, so finally he asked, “What are you fishing for?”

“It is to make sure no bugs, hmn, bug us,” his eyes danced. Another flick of fingers, taking in the little hanging oil lamps, or Ferox assumed that’s what the glass spheres were supposed to be, “I dumped the oil and put in water and frostrock for you _querido_ , it will take a few more hours for the room to cool to your tastes, but you will have to close the door to keep it in. Since we stay for a few days, we will leave the door closed at all times, so that my snowman does not melt. But there is also a drawer in the bedframe that holds frostrock, so the bed itself is cool at least, yes?” 

“That makes sense. However, if I recall correctly, you liked your snowman warmed...at least warmer than you...am I to be colder now...or is that you?” Yawning, Ferox checked that the door was indeed closed, “Perhaps it will make more sense after sleep.” Muttering, “Fishing for bugs...Antivans are very strange. Must be the heat.”

“It keeps them away, _amora_ , so they do not bite or sting while we sleep,” laughing at him and shoving the blankets back to pat the mattress. “Now come to bed with me and let us christen it, as in all the years this has been dubbed my bed - no one has.”

Finding his way through the netting, Ferox clambered in, “Ah, first to tire me on the trip over, you confine me to your cabin. Then when we arrive, after assaulting me with colour and food and scents and plying me with too many answers, you are determined to take my mind off them... Tell me again why we didn’t leave for Antiva as soon as you arrived in Ferelden? Or is this the special treatment?” He was trying not to laugh as he ‘complained’, only half of it making any real sense. 

Strong hands reached for his waist immediately, “Hmn, I think there may have been something important, but for the life of me, I cannot recall, _amora_. I think it may have done with a place called ‘Ferelden’, but it sounds like a dreary place, unsuited to your loveliness, so I most likely plucked you from it to bring you home with me, where you can find plenty of light and laughter and peace. But I do not wish you to be overtired of it, else you might try to squirm away, and yet, I cannot help but wish to pull you along as I immerse myself in what I have missed, to share it anew, and see it through your soulful brown eyes.”

“Soulful? Am I a dog, I mean, hound?” self correcting even though Horse was nowhere near enough to hear. “Although he does seem to be quite taken by your Zama-mama.”

He snorted, “Hardly.” Fingertips brushed over his brows, “Beautiful and deep and brown, and in them I can see the soul and the man within,” Zevran wound up pressing his body along Ferox’s, stroking the still loose, but no longer sodden waves from his face. “She is _ga’ni shedu’ni_ , animals know her for what she is, that she walks and talks and sees the spirits, the way they do. Plus, she will spoil him rotten and he knows that.”

A soft ‘hurm’ acknowledging the truth of the spoiling, as his eyes closed contentedly one of the questions bubbled to the surface. “What marks have you made on me...other than carving what you have _said_ -” the word was emphasized as if Ferox did not believe him or intend to change his mind on that matter, “- is not your name in my thigh?” 

“Hmn, she said what precisely? As I have put nothing on you other than a few scars, but those would not be identifiable as mine. Nor my earring, I am...I have always jealously guarded my few treasures - even from each other,” his nose rubbed itself in the crook of Ferox’s neck, releasing that very contented purr while Ferox rubbed his back.

Hooking a leg with one of his own, “You were pretending not to listen, or more accurately, to hide...almost like when we went to Morrigan.” Ferox searched for the words, which were right before the ones that frightened him, “I thought of the earring too, the first time your Zama-mama said it. The second time, it was clear that she was not talking about an object, because she said that your marks are all over my soul.” 

“As yours are on mine, _amora_. It takes no mage talent to leave them there,” Zevran kissed a collarbone, then scooted to press his mouth in a line towards the place where his heart was. “You can feel my lips when I do this, but you can feel more in that touch, _querido._ Just as I do when you touch me and it is many things at once. Something more than physical sensation.”

“True,” watching his lover, arms still around him. However it had been said twice and sounded like it was something important, and if Zevran was hiding...what did that mean? What came next, that was what he wanted to hide from, so why not Zevran, too? Was it just not making sense because he was lost and overwhelmed? 

Hands stroked his sides slowly, “Does my touch comfort you, _amora_? Yours comforts me. It is more than the touch of your skin to my skin, it is a sense, a thought, a pervasive thing that somewhere deep inside is being touched as well. As though I am many layers housed in one set of flesh and bone. So I am sure she sees you all over me, beneath my skin, rooted in my bones. Ever since pulling me dead and blue from my mother’s body, my cord wrapped around my neck, and she used her magic unfettered and without rule to bring me back... I have been able to affect her in certain ways. As an infant, no other teat was welcome by me, and so I apparently cried milk from her breasts which were sterilized by power. Andshe always can feel me, like a sense, a knowledge, a...feeling...that may not be solid, but it is there. Or so she says.”

“You know that this only makes for more questions, right? And I am already several days behind.”

Zevran got comfortable after pulling the silk sheet up and laying the end of the comforter near enough to tug that into place should it be needed. “Then ask and I will answer how I can.” 

Leaning in for a taste of sunlight, “No, it wasn’t my intention to further delay the christening of your mattress.” 

“Rinna nor Taliesin ever stayed over, sometimes they would visit for a meal or a healing, but Zama never embraced them, _querido._ ” The explanation was given, answering a question he hadn’t realized he had. “This place is yours now too. My Zama is your Zama. The christening has waited decades, it can wait for more questions.”

Reluctantly, “What is the difference...I mean, why me and not others that you cared about?”

“Because they would not have understood or accepted possibly. Or possibly because...they had a difficult time sharing with each other or even with myself. Or even the fact that as much as I look back and am sad that they are no longer, they never gave me what you do.” A strand of Ferox’s hair was taken and wound around a long brown finger. “You would never think to harm me, even if ordered to. You would give to me your last breath if it would save me suffering. And I would for you as well. You give to me the gift of life, constantly. Purpose, friendship, love, safety, context. You give me those things freely and without pause. They could not. Not to the extent you do.” 

Having early on given his tiny kingdom, followed by himself and lastly his future, Zevran had every bit of him. They both knew he could have had more too...things, titles, duties and responsibilities. If Zevran had asked, Ferox probably would have taken upon himself the other tasks and titles that were available, some offered, others only needing to be claimed. He was grateful such was not requested or required of him, but that was the last bargain he had made, to leave. He had never liked making trades, deals - Zevran could do their bargaining, the tallying of numbers - rather he preferred promises or gifts...not exchanges. One was expecting something in return, the other was choice. His choice had been to be with Zevran, who, for no good reason he could determine, wanted and needed him and the same was true in return. 

“Gladly. Although perhaps not everything was, is, easy to give or to give up, everything is given willingly. There is choice and I’m more than content. I need nothing more than you.”

“Exactly,” the air was cooling and Ferox finally noticed it as Zevran burrowed in tightly. “That...that was not the case with them. Though they loved and were loved, it was... Not this.”

Snagging the comforter and drawing it over them, arms returning round his elf, “I do love how thoughtful you are. Keeping me cool being the example at hand. Although there’s probably an ulterior motive of pressing yourself as close as you can be...but I like that too.”

“The ulterior motive is always to get closer, _querido_ ,” chuckling softly as he wiggled against the impossibly soft bedding.

“You are bouncing and excited as any child during Saturnalia. What great secrets are you keeping up your...well you took your tunic off, and you’re not wearing anything else to hide something...” Ferox trailed off.

Almond-shaped gold eyes widened innocently, “The bedding is soft. I remember when I was a little boy the first time I was brought to spend the night. _I_ wanted to sleep with Zama and did not care if Sa’id was there or not. _He_ wanted me to take my own bed. Somehow they wrangled me to over here and I slept for a time... Until of course I woke because it was strange and different and slid into their bed. Sa’id did not notice, he was...I believe...occupied. However, I was four and so my recollection is not particularly clear as I was also half-asleep. When the morning came and he realized I was there, he was not very happy with me. My answer was that the bedding was soft. So, he gave me soft bedding. Next time I came over, I still wound up in their bed anyway. But they learned to time things so that if I came in it would be _after_ they were through. But mostly I remember thinking that the silk was soft like Zama’s hair.”

“Do you need to skip downstairs for another hug? I’m not going anywhere and won’t suddenly disappear.” 

With a crinkling nose, Zevran dropped forty something years in an instant, “No, the bedding is soft, you are here, and she would likely swat my bottom for ‘traipsing about in the altogether’ just to get a hug. Especially since I believe she is outside with Horsie giving out leftovers from our meal, and that would mean parading around outside entirely nude.”

Chortling laughter shook him unable to see anything but a vivacious five-year-old in that moment. “Zevran! There are such things as pants, no doubt lying on the floor over there somewhere on the floor. I didn’t say, ‘without stopping to put anything on’.” Ferox wiped a tear from his eye. “I can see it all so clearly though. The neighbour ladies calling out or covering their eyes, but still peeking between fingers and squealing. The noise of course would draw others to their windows or porches ‘to assist’. Which would be all well and good until your growling guard dog came out to haul you back in, having forgotten his own pants in the ruckus. Whereupon the truly shocked crowd _would_ call for the guard, and then you’d really be in trouble. No doubt able to talk your way out of it somehow, restore order, receive four offers of marriage, and successfully smooth the ruff of your disgruntled and loyal companion.” 

Snickering, “Would it be a good time to say that I have been known to streak down this street and few would be surprised...? My favourite is to answer the door when a package comes while in the nude. Lots of eye rolling occurs and I usually get hauled off by an ear and being scolded. But she laughs so, eh, not too bad a trouble...”

“Then if it is something that you want, pants or no pants, knowing I will be here dozing in your soft bedding when you return, why aren’t you out that door?”

“Because I would much rather be here in our soft bedding with you,” contentedly arching against him. 

Rumbling back, “You _are_ a cat. What is this ‘poo-shoo’ name that Zama-mama has chosen to call me?”

“ _Mu’poushu_ \- ‘moo’ like a cow, first. _Mushu_ means the same as _da’len_. Basically. While elvish means ‘little one’, mu means pure, and shu means spirit. So...little dark boy, or dark child,” there was a sudden twist as Zevran rolled over rubbing his back and shoulders against Ferox’s chest for a few seconds then rolled back over again. “At least I do not paw at you...usually. Or knead you...usually.” Some more of that very feline behaviour that Ferox had no doubt contributed to Zevran’s pet name as he rubbed his face into Ferox’s shoulder, “Because of being what she is, it is impolite for a shaman to say the name of the living if they are well-known or during casual conversation. If she is Working on you - tattoos, piercings, healings - then use of name is appropriate. To use it commonly as any other would, would invite bad luck on the named person.”

“Hrm,” returning to stroking Zevran’s back, which was where they had started. “She wasn’t very happy at first, when asking for my name...finally accepting a name given to me, something intended to be an amusingly insulting description... Yet another guess at what my nonexistent middle name is. Our trainer was probably bored with the usual guesses...although the guess of ‘Arland’ did get someone beat up... Admittedly Fergus helped because the boy was his age and quite large. There might have been some kicking of shins involved and definitely the honourable mention of some biting of behinds.”

“Hmn, I heard, above the clatter of pots and pans, my chilly one,” flexible feet curled around his calf, rubbing until the hair began to stand up, actions usually reserved for the dead of winter. “Speaking of which, while you did eat a great deal, it likely could have been Alistair’s cooking and you would have eaten it if the look on your face was anything to go by. Was the meal pleasant for you?”

“I was very hungry and it was very good, thank you. My manners abandoned me and I must repair that when we go back downstairs. I was unable to separate all of the flavours though...it’s like scents that way, too. I couldn’t have said what it was that made one thing or another delicious.” Sardonically, “As for Alistair, no, I could’ve told you what he made, if only from the gray colour of the dish alone.”

Fingers happily worked their way into his hair, creeping up his chest and side to gain their destination, “Good. I made sure it was not spicy, or laden with onions. Though I believe I will have to slowly sneak them in - just a few. The braised foods use stock, and stock without onions is just salty water.” Zevran’s lids slid closed taking a deep breath, a soft smile playing about his lips, “There will be many meals in the future to repair any damage you perceive, though none occurred, so do not worry.” 

“I’m grateful then. I hadn’t been so...starving before...no other word for it, truthfully. And I don’t mind onions, just their sliminess when left in big chunks.” 

Zevran practically wriggled like an agitated cat whose fur was all up, “ _Now the truth comes out! Hah!_ Why did you not tell me this? Why? I could have had moderately edible food for all these years!”

“What? Just because I chopped them up fine, when it was my turn to cook, so they were invisible or practically dissolved. When I said I didn’t like onions, Alistair had left them practically whole that night, you remember. Everyone just assumed.”

“Mph, I only remember having to squat behind the bushes particularly long every time we stopped for the next two days,” Zevran groused.

“That man burned water. It’s why he, by some unexplained miracle, pulled ‘wood hunting’ or water drawing as his duty, time and time again around then. And when Leliana wasn’t fast enough...well, it was ‘lamb’ and peas again.” Sighing he shook his head and made a face at the memory.

Zevran was clearly just enjoying himself rolling around in the sheets yet again, even sliding away to rub his face vigorously in a pillow before scooting back once more. “Truthfully I should have just been the cook, but all those ‘oh Zev are you finally going to put some deathroot in the pot tonight, ha ha ha,’” going utterly deadpan, “yes, all very funny and very amusing, yes, I had never had such a laugh... So I did the worst thing I could think of and not take over... Hah. Last laugh for me.”

Ferox found enough energy to chuckle, reaching out to run a tired hand over his very squirmy sun, “Deathroot at least would have been some flavour.”

“Also would have made mouths a pretty shade of blue,” mumbling.

“That container of sourdough was a find though. The bread was so good that first night. Didn’t you find the berries? That was like being back in Nan’s kitchen. Couldn’t believe it when Oghren used the starter to make beer however. I was wondering if the river was swift enough to carry his corpse down river quick enough before anyone noticed he was missing.”

Zevran laughed, “He would have merely sunk straight down, _amora_ , and you know it!”

“Aaaaaaand then there would have been screaming at bathtime...probably the only thing that stayed my hand.” Ferox grinned, “Although on the bright side, the beer made for tastier bread later.” 

His lover settled in once more, likely a temporary arrangement, “Mmn, as you say, _amora_.” He was quiet, fingers making meaningless drawings on Ferox’s skin, “I am happy you are here, _querido_ , I am happy my Zama likes you. Do you like her? I am told she can be overwhelming.”

“Yes, I think I do like her.” Securing his assassin by rolling on top of him, hopefully to still him for a short time, “I am happy to be here too. What did you say once? And here I am, happy to be had?”

“Mmn, yes, just so. Good,” head tipping back, Zevran kissed him, which Ferox returned. “Mn, my favourite blanket.”

Head over the steady heartbeat, Ferox closed his eyes hoping that his weight was enough to hold the elf in place for at least a few minutes. It was either that or start bouncing on the bed himself with excitement, and he couldn’t remember doing that since he was a child, nor could he come up with a reason why he would do it now. “So, your bedding is soft, you are happy you are home, you are happy that Zama-mama likes me, and I her...what else?”

“I am just happy to be _home_ with my home.” Zevran’s legs tangled with his, arms going around his shoulders, “It may not be like this all the time, but this slice of absolute perfection makes any distaste I might have at dealing with the Guild - though honestly, I would not know how to be anything else other than a Crow, no matter where I go - so minimal as to be not even a breath on the wind. And that we are away from those who seek to take from you...beyond priceless, _amora._ I have never even thought to dare to hope for any such thing until I had you.”

“I am yours absolutely. I refuse to belong to, or answer to, anyone else, as they have too many demands that I don’t wish to fulfill.”

His assassin kissed his temple, “ _Amora_ , I have made unfair requests of you. Do not think for a moment that I do not know this.”

Flicking one of the rings on Zevran’s chest repeatedly, “Most for my own good, if I recall, especially when I was not exactly in my right mind. Not unfair or selfish, those requests. Don’t worry or think on them, I don’t.”

A contented purr, “Now that your questioning mind has been suitably diverted, was there anything else you wished of me, _amora_?”

“Plenty, and yet I have everything.” Lifting his head, Ferox tugged the other ring, which had been under his cheek, with his teeth in concert with the continued flicking. “What do you wish of me?”

“You, only you,” thrumming. “Anything, everything, or nothing beyond a kiss. For me, so long as you are there, that is all that is important.”

“The sounds you make drive me to distraction, as you well know, love.” Kissing above thealways steadying heartbeat. “Your joy and excitement fill me to overflowing. I don’t know if I give you these things as much as I feel them. It is easier, gets easier, the longer you’re with me.”

Fingers slowly danced from Ferox’s skull to his shoulder, stroking, “Marks on your soul, _mi hermoso corizon_.”

“Turns out they’re stitches to hold the wounds closed.”

....

Zevran was right - he didn’t like letting the assassin go off on his own. It was almost impossible to let him go unprotected, unaccompanied, all while ‘making nice’ with men and women who could so easily become enemies. His lover reiterated many times, though Ferox didn’t complain - any enmity was _just business_ and nothing more. Parties would be attended, his lover on his arm, guiding and showing off the heroic ‘bumpkin’ who had saved more than a nation, slipping away at some point during the parties for his own tasks. Ignacio had found an elf of similar build and looks whose hair was bleached, a stain put to flesh to mimic Zevran’s tattoos. At a glance, even a good one, the impostor held up under inspection. During those parties, he and ‘Zevran’ would disappear to alcoves as though for trysts, the act when actually offered by the fake nearly made him hiss and recoil. But after it was made clear that Ferox had _no_ interest in someone other than his lover, they wound up sitting quietly, the Crow lazily alert. 

Ignacio wound up a fairly interesting and somewhat entertaining individual. He understood Ferelden in a way that the other Crows appeared to be unable to, and never seemed to push him into situations, at least alone, that Ferox couldn’t handle. When he found out that often the soirees usually had far more than food and drink involved, none were ever passed to him, surreptitiously they seemed to always skip him. On several occasions, Ferox had to go ‘home’ with the impostor, the residence that Ignacio had provided proved to be some form of barracks. One of those businesses that Crow Masters or Master Crows, delineations that were difficult for Ferox to grasp at times, as truly the names were the same but for word order, that turned a daily profit. A modest inn, though finer than anything Ferox could remember outside of Orlais, with a restaurant on the first floor, that, by day, was expanded to be an outdoor cafe. And there he would wait, change from the clothes that were more borrowed finery from the dead Sa’id, whose cut of clothes Ferox didn’t mind at all, just the extra...adornments of it. Chased silver or gold buckles on belts, jewels - actual jewels, not glass or paste or resin - set about collars, and cuffs, but the patterns were mostly simple at least. On anyone other than himself, particularly if it were his Antivan, he would find Sa’id’s clothes attractive. The ‘plainest’ fair of Sa’id’s clothes were usually slipped on quickly, as while comfortable and attractive by Ferox’s standards, it didn’t make him cringe like he was shouting ‘look at me - look at me!’ to passersby. All in all he still felt like a bumbling and gawky teenager after a sudden growth spurt.

When Zevran would finally show up - either at parties or at Ignacio’s inn, or even his city ‘villa residence’ - Ferox would feel a flood of relief. Then if they were not engaged at a party, they could leave quickly and quietly. A sleek blackish grey horse with white spots and silver-blond mane and tail would be vaulted onto, Medorid was all things lightning, so it stood to reason it was the horse’s name, Zevran sitting his seat as though it was the most natural thing in the world. While Ferox worried over the back of the older Fymataf, who would only shoot him a mild look every time he shifted around as though asking him why he was wiggling so gingerly. Then they would return to Zamitie’s home, where Ignacio and Zevran both had agreed they would be safest. Not that Ferox was in danger apparently, he had been listening, it was the uproar of a rogue Crow that was the problem. Thus it meant that _Zevran_ was the one at risk. However, it also meant that Ferox could be used against him. Which was why going to Zamitie’s was apparently safer. A Warden _and_ an apostate _pintore_ were two nearly untouchable things. It also had the benefit of Ferox liking being there, and Horse being happy as a pig, playing with the children from the block and running happily amok like a puppy, was no mean feat either. One night there had been a very plaintive meowing and scratching at the door and Horse barked until Ferox went to get the door - Zevran was down for the count, recovering from a healing - and in slipped a tiny black and white cat that appeared more kitten than adult. It had rapidly curled up with Zevran, right over his head on the pillow and tucked its chin over his forehead and gone to sleep. So apparently Tigress was alive and well, and he found himself waking up with her wedged up against his ass some mornings, others, draped over Horse’s shoulders, limp as a sodden dishtowel. 

As those who posed the most threat were picked off one by one, the tally rising rapidly, almost every other day, sometimes two in a day - Ferox wondered just how many Zevran was planning to kill. But the talk began to turn, Ignacio reminding them what the Crows’ first and foremost tenet and purpose was: Protect Antiva. That even though Zevran had ‘failed’ in his job, he had not failed in his most important task. That, by his very ‘failure’, he had done what he was charged with doing the day he became a Crow, with the prime directive superseding all others. Some agreed, some did not. But as the body count kept rising, the dissenters quieted. Until one day there was a flurry at one gathering at a palatial home and screams for the Guildmaster were heard. The gruesome scene was of an older man, his ribs broken wide open to look like wings, ‘traitor’ burned into his forehead, hanging from the rafters. No one had seen it happen, or heard it happen - one minute the Guildmaster had been moving through the crowds, and the hall was pleasantly loud, the next minute it seemed, he was there, hanging, spread limbed, organs dangling like streamers. It was not the fear of Zevran that then became an issue, no one could conceive that it was the ‘foppish whoreson’ who had never been seen away from Ferox’s side, but some other turf war going on. And maybe it was, he didn’t pretend to fully understand the politics, nor did he wish to beyond what was absolutely necessary. 

Documents and other dealings that could not be ignored appeared until the House of Crows was far more concerned about Qu’nari invasions, internal politics, and tales of darkspawn still marauding in Ferelden, to worry any longer about Zevran. He was set aside as a creature that kept the Hero of Ferelden appeased. Suddenly they were safe. 

Tigress was on the lip of the tub, a paw dipping itself into the water playfully as Zevran lounged, a dry hand reaching out to stroke the rabbit soft fur. “Sten would be displeased if he knew how poorly he had been used.”

Ferox picked up a brown foot, rubbing one of the myriad pastes into the scarred arch, pastes which were in glass jars on a rack installed in the wall that the tub abutted. Curiously, “Oh, how so?”

“Remember his statement that the honour of the Qu’nari meant that the Llomerynn Accord meant nothing to them? That they would return? Well, there was a ship that was scuppered in the Bay not too long ago, but when the rescue ships went to it, it blew up,” humming and letting out a soft groan as Ferox found a tight tendon. “Any excuse would be taken as a sign that it was time to gather their forces. Some documents from the Seheron deep-cover cell indicated that there has been increased activity. The reports from Ferelden, the Wardens, myself, Ignacio, and a few letters from ‘you’ to Loghain have been intercepted. Thus, this means there is a threat of attack... If not Tevinter, then us or Rivain would be on their list. So... Hmn...so studying our strapping Sten, yielded enough ‘new’ sounding information for them to be far too worried about invasion than myself.”

“Although the word is the Arishok was in Kirkwall. Kind of a strange invasion point. Would take too many ships...unless they’re really that confident.” Working the muscles in the well traveled limb, Ferox frowned, “Sten was confident, but not stupid.”

Zevran grunted, “Arishok does not need to be anywhere for an invasion to be staged. Arishok is...different. He goes where the Qun compels him to. If there is some item of business in Kirkwall for him to see to personally, it is unlikely to be invasion. But he could easily have left orders - it is the doubt and not knowing that has secured me...leniency. For if invasion came, they would wish you to be here - who better to help fight impossible odds than the man who wrangled an entire country from civil war and darkspawn annihilation?”

Rolling his eyes, amused, “If anybody ‘wrangled’ it was one who kept riding dragons...but yes, you are the one who keeps me here.”

“Since we have been completely inseparable, virtually attached at the _hips_ ,” a closed eyed smirk, “taking away your favourite plaything might be a very bad idea.”

Dryly, “What? I might finally draw upon my temper and criticize their fashion sense and discordant music? - which is nothing like what I have heard in the streets, I might add.” In his best imitation of Master Wade, “Herren, thou hast slain me. I simply cannot work in these conditions. Do I have dreams? Do I have inspirations? No. It is a crime. A crime, I tell you.” Clearing his throat, “I still say that lime green should never be worn with orange, I care not what shade, although she wore several. And the little green hat with the feather made her look like a pumpkin, all the while jiggling those globes at me for hours trying to get me to look.” 

Laughter, that true heat that spilled from Zevran’s lips so often in so many different shades and strengths, and the assassin surged forward in the enormous tub to be in his lap. “Oh bosoms are not so bad, _amora_.” Hands pushed up under the muscular pectorals, smashing them bizarrely, “If I cover my face in a veil, I have a good figure for them when dressed properly. Sadly, once released from the confines of the apparatus to hold them thus, they return to their natural state. However, I must say that if I saw a woman who looked like myself when dressed that way, I would likely look a very long time.”

Fervently, trying not to imagine that, “Maker. I don’t want to know that.” Running a tongue around a rather pointed ear, “For the record, I never said breasts were bad or ruled them out entirely. Merely I haven’t seen a face and personality attached to them that I would like _that_ close to me. Ms....probably Mrs., now that I think about it, Pumpkin didn’t have a personality I could say anything good about.”

“Indata was catering to what we perceive Fereldens are like, _querido_. She is a Crow and a fairly high-ranking one. Bedding you would have been a great feather in her cap,” Zevran released a very interested sigh, the velvet soft flexible cartilage twitching closer to Ferox’s lips. “Think of it as a compliment to how well you have pulled off the ruse of being a warrior with minimal intelligence, grunting at things to make them do what you will, like a barbarian and causing darkspawn and Landsmeet to piss themselves at your shows of dominance.”

“Two.” Ferox snorted, “She already had one feather.”

“I did not notice, I was too busy watching your shoulders shift beneath silk and thinking of how broad they are,” hands slid over said shoulders to the blades, fingertips digging in lightly. “It is very distracting - I can see nearly every movement of your body when you wear such garments, the display is...entrancing, _querido._ ”

“Uh huh. Likely it was my shoulders willing themselves to crawl into my ears to block out her inane chatter. Had she said anything real, I would have remembered her name. Reminded me of the salons that...oh what was her name...Mother’s friend,” Ferox squinted as if that would help him to remember, “Landra, not important, although she had the nicest girl with her.” Grunting as the voice and face and body were brought to mind, “I take that back, about never seeing breasts attached to a face or personality I didn’t like, Iona’s were very pleasant, as was she. And before you ask, no I didn’t see her naked to verify it either... Anyway, she wanted to bring her daughter from the Alienage in Denerim, to give her a better life...” 

Zevran pressed his mouth in short bursts of kisses over his face, tender but not childish, “We saved the Alienage, the inhabitants got free, _amora_. Those who did not are unfortunate casualties. But many were saved, very many. Far more than if we had done nothing, _querido._ ”

Squeezing the assassin tightly, “I am not displeased with any of our work, nor do I regret what was done, at least not that. At all times, we did everything that could be done.” Ferox leaned back against the side of the tub, “Occasionally, I wish there was somehow deeper reserves or more of us, but that’s all. Amethyne? Another I forgot. But I am not, wasn’t sinking...I was just surprised I found a set I liked. Iona, unlike your guard’s woman, was single and interested. Unfortunately, however, she’s dead, but that’s not when I noticed them. Which I suppose puts the other lass ahead in the long run.” Ferox laughed. “Not that she’ll be showing up anywhere near here.”

Zevran snorted shaking his head, “You are a marvel, _amora_.”

Ferox was about to ask what it was that was so marvellous, but his lover had dipped his head to tongue at the earring and his earlobe. Since it had been pierced it had become oddly sensitive, or perhaps it was the possessive and appreciative manner Zevran’s tongue ran around the area that made it so. Squeezing him tightly again, Ferox realized it must be ‘lunch time’ if the weight tapping on his stomach in time to gentle flexing was anything to go by. 

Chuckling as he palmed Zevran’s cock, “What’s on the menu today then my O So Tense One?”

“Oh I am quite far from tense, as you are so good at relieving my tensions before they mount,” an echoing laugh in his ear, buzzing and pouring that accented liquor into his brain. “But if you are offering...who am I to turn down such a generous gift?” even as he flexed in Ferox’s hands, playfully nipping at his jaw. “Mmn, after though you need a shave, I miss the baby-faced you of three days ago.”

Wrapping a hand around Zevran’s hip to feel the line of tight tendons, “I don’t know, I mean, I am fast becoming ‘what’s en vogue in Ferelden’ or in the local parlance, ‘what to stay away from’. I’d hate to change their minds about me. You know how well I respond to peer pressure.”

Zevran licked Ferox’s jaw, the tug and scrape audible along with the elf’s happy growl, before the inside of lips followed the path of muscle, “Mmn, yes, anything further and we would need to shape it. But right now, I do believe it is perfect for the moment.” Making his way back to Ferox’s ear, “Then again, you are perfect any moment in your many ways.”

“I trust my person to your wonderfully capable hands,” rumbling softly.

The sun’s easy enjoyment of touch and body to body had always been infectious. There was something freeing about knowing his touch was wanted, and that he was wanted, particularly by the one in his arms, it was for the sun he had stayed, for the sun he had found some path through the shifting footing beneath him, secure in the knowledge that this was all he needed and all he wanted. Slow probing of yielding muscles with unguent covered fingers, the warm embrace of water lapping was another series of sensations to just take in. As soon as Zevran was ready, hands not having been idle were busy making sure that Ferox’s manhood was well teased to further readiness and made slick, before shifting to take him in. Head tipping against the backrest, Ferox moaned, a sound that was echoed as their bodies became connected. 

Rocking up just to hear Zevran’s sharply indrawn breath, Ferox hooked an arm beneath a bronze leg, tilting his lover enough to control their thrusting so that it would strike the way he knew the sun liked it best. In some ways the midday lovemaking had replaced the evening’s sessions as it was at midday that their true span of sleep happened. For which Ferox had found himself grateful, because Antiva was steadily becoming _hotter_. Side to side grinding of hips from above as Ferox pushed up, fingers combed through his chest hair, palms splayed over his nipples as Zevran rubbed them. “Ferox,” name drawn out with a teasing groan, “thinking of something else?”

Tightening his arm around Zevran’s waist, “No, only you, love, just you.”

Another laugh, so much laughter, Ferox had never known it was possible for there to be so much of it, let alone that it was possible he could copy the sound almost as frequently, then a look of concentration came over the assassin’s face. One that heralded the short grinds that would help bring Zevran over quickly, not that it would be the last. So he held on, held steady against the way the sun curled into him, beginning to shudder. Letting him ride it out, Ferox kept his own breathing slow, stretching his legs out as Zevran leaned back, half floating in the water with a satiated sigh. It was one of those slow times that was little more than a blur, floating, both of them, the splash of water, a chuckling splutter when Zevran had tossed his head too much and got water in his nose, rocking up to wind arms around Ferox’s shoulders. 

A pleased rumble had come with the taste sliding over his tongue, the hands in his hair, the tight embrace of body, taken into the sun, washed free of any thought but listening to Zevran, to watch him, to feel him, until he could hold out no longer. Clutching the bright and loved sun to him, Ferox shuddered, for the long seconds nothing but the sensation of being held still and in a pure state before the rush finished and he struck the ground, drained, but held tight and safe. 

....

Tigress was perched on the saddlehorn between Zevran’s legs as the quintet went to see the not-imaginary, imaginary plantation. The dainty feline got her rounded triangle ears scratched and stroked periodically, a white paw reaching out to pet Zevran whenever he stopped or hadn’t done it recently enough. Ferox had been told that the cat was well over fourteen years old, but she was so small that she could have been a kitten. Horse was prancing and scooting off to sniff at things nearby along the stone paved road, cavorting happily and jumping after butterflies that he was perfectly able to catch but never did. Around them gently rolling hills covered in shades of green and gold welcomed Ferox’s eyes, dotted with large homes and what looked like small towns almost, not too far off. Scanning their surroundings he saw that in the distance the hills increased their height to that of foothills, a few that were clearly very old mountains worn down to nubbins, but still majestic. And green...so much green. Plants were a verdant cloak, even clothing the sides of those mountains, a cornucopia basket, orchards and vineyards and huge vegetable growing plots, everywhere that he could see, no matter how he squinted.

Zamitie nudged her mount closer, withdrawing a brass cylinder, “ _Mu’poushu_ , open this and look through it and you will see much more.”

Accepting the device, he had to blink realizing what it was, “A scope? This is...” In Orlais he had seen one, his father almost bought it until he heard the price. Fergus and he had both been sad that the wondrous thing had been left unpurchased. Reverently clicking it open, he squinted and looked through, everything brought into sharp focus. “Maker...”

It was too much to take in, the sheer volume of cultivated land, with so many varieties, it nearly broke his mind. Ferox tried to identify each plant he saw, but there were _so many_ that he had to give up. Apples, pears, peaches, lemons, limes, oranges, plums, so many plums, cherries, things that looked like apples, things that looked like pears, everywhere, nut trees that he could recognize, oak trees in pasture land with fat cows lazing beneath the broad branches. Sheep and goats being herded along towards low and long portable awnings, people with buckets and barrels on carts waiting to gather milk. Mulberry trees, some with streamers of white masses on them, silkworms in their little temporary homes waiting to be boiled out of their cocoons... His farmer’s heart thought that this had to be the closest to the Golden City any mortal could ever get. And he was in the center of it, a small speck sitting on a borrowed horse, with the sun beside him watching him closely, serenely. 

Setting the scope down and closing it was painful, but he could no longer look without being blinded and overwhelmed, “There’s so much...”

“For the next six hundred miles it is all farmland, _querido_. Much of the country’s food is produced here, perhaps a solid third of it,” Zevran’s hand went to Tigress’ bottom as she clambered up his chest to perch on his shoulder, looking around quizzically. The number stated was dizzying when Ferox calculated into over several million acres. “On the other side of the mountains flax, sugarcane, sorghum, more corn, wheat, many of the hardier grains, olives, and spices are grown on different plantations. Along with cotton. Out here, in this valley, it is mostly that which requires more water, or is more perishable. However, some of the aristocrats and merchant princes have plantations out here, and just grow whatever they choose. _La Villa Bonita_ , is two days’ ride from here, where the valley begins to go to the dryer Weyrs, but only because of a bend in the land. But it is not so far that growing more delicate things is impossible.” 

“How many acres did you say it was again?” trying to put it into perspective.

“Approximately four-hundred,” shrugging nonchalantly, but those gold eyes were watching him, taking joy in seeing his reactions. “It was the spoils of a job. Well, ill gotten gains from a job. The deeds were sitting around, and so I merely felt that it would be a waste if they were to burn with the mark’s house. Since the deeds could not be ‘found’ during the sell-off of the former owner’s other properties, it fell to whomever could claim ownership. I had to wait several years of course, but I was perhaps...nineteen when I came into the deeds. So after the five year legal wait for some relative to come forward to claim it was over, I went to the judiciary and put forth my deeds. It took two years after that to have rented enough slaves to have it at a functioning capacity, and once it began turning profits, I bought the slaves to continue running it. Continuity is key to keeping slaves happy, _amora_. They work no more than ten hours a day, for five days of the week. Even the house slaves. The children receive learning in letters and math, and I try very hard to not have families broken up. On the occasion that such a thing happens, it is to an owner who is nearby so that they can visit. Think of them as serfs with rights if it makes it easier for you.”

Zamitie snorted, “ _Gatito_ , do not worry so over them. They are healthier than the free peasants along the western riverbanks, their lives are easier, and there is never a worry over lack of food. Freedom is overrated, most of them are aware of this. No worries of taxes, levies, crime, privation, of where the roof over their head came from. Nor do you prevent them from finding other things that they choose to do. Several have tidy businesses and are allowed their ingenuity. Sometimes,” thoughtfully, “it takes a slave to own slaves.” Slate green eyes in the femininely handsome face slid to Ferox, “You will be the only person who is not a slave on the plantation. Myself excluded, as I once was, not that being _ga’ni sheduni_ or a _pintore_ is freedom, as it is not.”

Interesting that slaves owned slaves...if a slave owned another, didn’t that mean somebody at the top owned everything? That thought hurt his head, reminding himself to think smaller. Servants who were employed, some even becoming ‘family’, or an extension of it, this was familiar. But because labor had been so plentiful before the Blight, many were taken advantage of, or treated poorly, especially in Denerim...the entire Alienage situation was a prime example. It could be thought that if one purchased another that they would be driven to care for their ‘investment’. However, people being what they were, that wasn’t necessarily true either. And this brought Ferox back to an uncomfortable thought, one he hadn’t considered since meeting Zevran. In his limited view, if one had slaves, they didn’t go traveling the world. Yet, apparently it was done, had been done. And, oh this part really made his head hurt, a slave who killed other slaves, or perhaps masters who were _also_ slaves. But then who owned the top slave? And were they still a slave if no one was left to own them? 

Rubbing his forehead and slapping the heels of both palms into his eye sockets, Ferox tried to push it from his mind as it was too much, too big, too _convoluted_ , for his poor brain to comprehend it... Perhaps it was best to leave those thoughts for another day...week...year. Lifetime probably was a good time to consider it. Several, even. If, and this was just an _if_ , it was formalizing the relationship between serf, knight, noble, king...into a written contract rather than what were essentially, in the beginning, oral vows taken in front of each other, the submissive, knees to the ground, hands in prayer, everyone seeing and therefore history being recorded, because written records faded, went missing, burnt in invasions, or any other possible manner of permanent removal. 

There was also the matter of the sheer size of the population. Ferelden was a very small place, well a large place with a much smaller and widely scattered population, a large town had two or three hundred people, cities ranged from the five hundred to a thousand that Highever had held to Denerim’s now seven or ten thousand. There were so many small freeholds, trappers, military posts with a few hundred men and women, with only a few families to support the forts, and with the Blight, a population so scattered, something that perhaps had been twice the amount of Antiva City at most, had been so greatly reduced. The main Alienage of Val Royeaux housed ten thousand elves it was said, not that he had ever seen it during his trips, all in a space the size of Denerim’s market district. Trying to focus onthat, he could then see just how large that city had been, perhaps larger than Antiva City even. Ferox had never gone beyond a few places that his father had taken him, or to some chevalier or noble lord’s estates, it was in such places he had learned to ride. Those places had been familiar, open, wide, filled with space like Ferelden. There had been serfs working fields, just like peasants, but recalling Orlais’ occupation and how Fereldans had had their rights stripped from them, making them slaves in all but name... He couldn’t say which was the right way.

If that was the essence of what was being described, he could conceive of it. But there were so many delineations and variables that there was no way to predict which way any one person would go, so many forms of ‘lord’ and ‘vassal’ that had no legal title and responsibility beyond words on paper. In some ways Zevran’s many words suddenly made sense - words were put to paper, and paper was legally binding in all things. That, and in such a populous place, perhaps there was more relocation or moving. Within Ferelden, this would certainly be different due to the refugees fleeing, memories of important events left with them, who owes duty and responsibility to another. There would be another change for Ferelden when trying to restore destroyed records, no village memory, as the villagers had been killed or left. That would be a big mess to clean up, especially with Denerim’s fire. Ferox forced himself to remember that it was not his problem, grateful that the bit he had to deal with was in Amaranthine, which had been only lightly disturbed by the Blight.

Zama-mama spoke as if it was unique that he was the only non-slave...yet anyone coming from Ferelden would have been, not just a nobleman’s son. Elf, dwarf, human - it didn’t matter, they were all freemen, all on their own unless they had sworn loyalty to another, or in the case of some, were employed by those who took greater care. Shaking his head, the view alone should remind him that he wasn’t in Ferelden anymore, this was a very different place. 

Yet another difference came around noon, when in the city they had been going down for a long nap to beat the heat, they pulled to a stop at one of the many odd circular offshoots that dotted the road in measured distances. A youth popped his head from a strange tent to look at them, gabble a few words and then came out to help with the horses and point them to one of the other tents, an exchange of coins after a bit of haggling, and then they entered blessed dimness. 

“Field stops, hmn? Always pleasant. The boy will be in with whatever shepherd's pie and potatoes he had been baking for more than just himself,” Zevran flicked out one of the thin bedrolls he had taken from his horse’s pack. “But let me see about getting the nice little setup for cooling for you, _amora_ so that we are all comfortable in our yurt.”

A kiss was had then the elf disappeared for long minutes, Tigress busily batting at one of the ropes on Ferox’s robe as he sat cross-legged. “How can you be so old? You’re just a kitten.”

“She is dying,” Zamitie said as she made herself comfortable on her own bedroll. “She lasted to see him, but will remain for a while longer before her body fails her. Before he left, I thought she would live to twenty, easily. It took her a very long time for her to grow to her current size. For almost seven years she could have fit in your hand, she was so small. I have helped her as best I can, but time cannot be slowed forever. It is the way of things.”

Stroking the silken black portion of her fur that was in the shape of a hooded cloak-jacket, “The way Zevran spoke of her, I imagined a great, long, slinky feline, especially when he would tell of her stealing his things and hiding them. For such a small thing, she certainly has a large presence in his stories of home and family.”

She smiled as Horse flopped near her for a butt-scratch, his head on his paws and looking adoringly up at Ferox, “There was something his Rinna said once, that Tigress was tiny but mighty.” The witch was quiet and he felt the air hum, her fingers dancing over Horse’s side. When she looked at him again her eyes still had thin green lightning flashes that slowly settled. “Taliesin saved her during a job. Brought her to me to see to her, I was never sure of him, but he did his best. When he said that he wanted to give her to _mi gatito_ , I could not help but hand her back after I had healed the worst of her hurts. I knew _gatito_ would enjoy nursing her back to health too much to finish completely. He is soft for wounded things, just as he, himself, is wounded.” Zamitie glanced off to the doorway, seeing beyond the covering, “It was always curious to me, at first I thought he was the way he is because he wishes so much to have value, not seeing that he already does. Then I thought it might be because it was a form of control when he felt he had none. Until I came to realize that what it always had been, was his desire to continue to heal others until perhaps someone saw that he too, needed healing and would reach out to him to do so.” Her smile was sweet, one that echoed at him so often in a golden brown face, “You are the only one who has ever realized what he was begging for, knowingly or not.”

“Admittedly, at first I thought he was trying to drive me off a tower or at least a bridge, and I was unable to give him to another. With so many other massive responsibilities, I didn’t want one that I couldn’t remove from my tent...or his when I went there. All I wanted was to wall myself off so I could walk the path, dragging them all behind me.” Ferox snorted with the memory. “At first it was need for company, which he did not receive from the others, nor from myself. Then cold, and even I had neglected that care, and hadn’t realized it until he was found sleeping in my tent shivering next to my second set of eyes. Horse was actually the first to care for him, between the two of us, he was the first to recognize the need for companionship and warmth.” A sigh, “Truly, for someone who intended that no one else be given to his care, be harmed or worse...that care was sadly lacking, drowned out by those louder than Zevran and more demanding. My parents would have been ashamed.” Shaking his head, “I certainly was, and still am.” The thought that he had finally noticed, nearly too late, made him vaguely ill sometimes when he thought about it, even now, what was years later.

A hand was waved, gently dismissing his grievous crime, “Revealing needs, even for air, for one trained as he was, is almost impossible, _mu’poushu_. If no one else noticed his needs other than the ever alert of those who think only of those that rely upon them,” she placed both hands on Horse’s back, rubbing firmly to get a canine chuckle that was a pant, “then no one with simple human intelligence would have noticed either. Why I do not like Crows, is that they are made into unnatural beings. Food, water, sleep, air, company - all of these things are to be forsworn to see a mission through. I understand it, that anything that could be used as a distraction must be eliminated, but I do not like it. That he let you see at all any weakness, was likely because you needed something more solid to cleave to. And a foothold in both of you was then found.” Wild hair was gathered up and shifted to one side, “I had been called to treat a Crow once, long ago, an age-mate of _gatito’s_. There was some goal, it does not matter what it was, but what does, was that he had walked, crawled, over glass and acid, without flinching, else the damage would have been even worse, to finish whatever task had to be done. Then he swam to the meeting boat and barely made it to his safe house. His brain was mostly dead, I could heal the body, but not the mind. This is what the true training does at its core. It takes a mortal and forces them to ignore, or set aside, for a time the need for anything beyond what is absolutely necessary for the mission. If you had not needed grounding, you never, ever, would have seen his needs. Nor would you have understood why he dropped dead at some point, so long as the mission was completed.”

“He asked for one thing, which, with conditions attached, I gave. I still don’t know if what was done was right, but I would do it again, if he but asked. I think that one of the conditions gave him more than he was asking for at the time, as -” Ferox began to chuckle, much amused, “- he is now stuck with the company of my person.”

Zamitie chuckled, a low throaty sound, “I have heard no complaints from him on that, so I _believe_ you gave precisely what was needed, rather than solely what was asked.”

“I would like to think so, as I’m not displeased with my choice.”

Zevran scuttled in, a small sack hanging from his mouth, with full hands, the little oil lamps that were to hold water and frostrock dangling over forearms, clinking merrily, and a large clay pot held with mitts between his hands. Incomprehensible muttering around the bag’s handles, “Mphmump?”

“Tsah! _Gattio!_ Silly boy,” Zamitie sat up to take the pouch from him, a good stack of flat bread revealed. “You should have sent that child in with some of this.”

Much smacking of lips, “Mmn, no he is having to make another batch for himself. I told him to focus on feeding his own belly rather than wasting time taking what I could do easily myself. Nothing complex though, just rice and dates with a duck, but it smells well enough.” 

However Ferox could see his lover’s excitement, the perpetual joy over something as simple as food painted across his face. “But it is plentiful and I gave him a few more andriis to make more bread and perhaps cook up some extra vegetables for us to take as a road snack! Now - let us eat!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Speedily, and graciously beta'd by Adachi! Much thanks and a thousand happy glomps.

They had travelled through the night, Zevran and Horse taking the lead, their night vision being the best, and Zamitie had summoned several blood red globes that floated behind them, granting slim light. Overhead the night sky was a blanket covered with sparkling diamonds, deep navy and silver grey clouds shifting and drifting. But the road was wide, and while the only others they came across who were on it during the dark, were pairs of riders carrying lanterns, there was no worry over losing the track. After a single afternoon stop at another of those travellers’ respites, they turned on to a tightly packed earth track scattered with gravel, until trees began. 

There was a huge collection of buildings, that, as they got closer, Ferox realized were one building, or perhaps four long halls connected, with one of them being two stories, with a potbellied tower that went to three stories on one side. Blue glazed tiles lined the sloping sections of roof, but he knew there would be awnings on flat sections to sun or hold little pots and planters. That was what Zevran had described during their longings for the imaginary plantation. What Ferox saw was everything that he had been told, and more, the scale was nearly that of the Vigil, but not meant for defense at all. Everything was so open there was no way the place could be defended. Yet that was clearly not its purpose at all, it was another of those odd celebrations of growing things, and thus signified peace and life to Ferox.

He had to close his eyes for a moment, overwhelmed by the reality of the dream. Ferox had so often doubted, even as he desperately clung to the stories, to the little descriptions. Of course there were differences, those were just plans that needed to be carried out. Plans that he and Zevran had made together to make the place _theirs_. A sharing, a joy, a home and a life. His eyes stung and his heart ached, that he could have lost this - not the plantation, but what it signified. If he had killed Zevran on a dusty road, if he had ignored the shivering and grey skinned elf in his pallet, if he had told him to leave, if he had not taken Morrigan’s ritual, if he had married Anora, taken the teyrnir of Gwaren or Highever, or become Arl of Amaranthine... So many, so very many ways he would have missed this. 

There would be no lovemaking in oversized tubs, silken sheets that clung and caressed as they twisted together, no too small cat meowing a demand for a scratching of her rump or rubbing of her belly, no sun shining down on him. No Horse darting and playing with children and romping around, stealing baked dates from plates or hands, chasing butterflies. The laughter might have been there, but it would not have been as solid as any reality. But somehow he had not misstepped. Had clung to the dream and suddenly it was real. Ferox barely heard the talking around him, barely able to do more than keep his feet after dismounting, leaning heavily against Fymataf’s side as the horse twisted his long neck to wuffle at him curiously, a large intelligent eye blinking at him. Unable to look away from that eye, he was drawn into the obsidian, as though there was a world in there, reflecting back at him, reassuring him that this was the true reality. 

Fymataf stayed still until he could stand completely on his own, ears flicking around patiently and tail swishing when a long limbed, genderless youth came to take the horse’s bridle. A servant, slave - he had to remind himself, yet the clothes on everyone were of fine weave, finer than he had seen on all but the highest ranking of his own family’s servants - removed the packs from Fymataf, slinging them easily over a shoulder. 

Ferox was one of the tallest people there, other than Zamitie, who towered, but at the same time didn’t overwhelm. Little ones were jumping up and down around her, a gaggle of children no more than six or seven years of age for the oldest and three or four for the youngest, seeking hugs and giving kisses. To them, she was a grandmother, likely having delivered every single one of them, and she doted on them all. She had likely, if the time frame given were accurate, brought into the world even those who had taken away the horses. A young man with a clubbed foot hobbled out to greet them, a cane leaned on heavily, smiling broadly at Zevran, bowing only to be drawn into a tight hug.

“Vela, this is Ferox,” Zevran presented him quickly. “Vela has been my housekeeper for nearly half his life. Now, I know it is nearly time for _siesta_ , so do not rouse the household overly on our account. Just toss our things into my room, and Zama’s into hers.”

“ _Claro, claro, El Jeffe_ , but a plate of iced fruits and wine will still be put out, nobody should ever doubt that you are well cared for,” Vela protested with a smile. “It would shame us if at least little things were not done. I was expecting you sooner though, so it is true, your rooms are well aired.”

Zevran drew Ferox close, looping an arm around his waist intimately, while keeping a hand on Vela’s shoulder, “Business, you know how it goes, _amigo_. And how I detest to leave things unfinished.”

Laughter, “Good help hard to find?”

“Outside of the plantation? Yes!” A set of green double doors was swung open, and there was a thin entryway, lined with deep umber square tiles, huge tiles, nearly two feet by two feet, made of baked clay, rugs scattered over them neatly. Zevran stopped, turning to Ferox and squeezing his hands, “ _Mi casa, es tu casa, querido._ Welcome home.”

Caught in the light of his sun, he squeezed back, “Zevran, I am stunned. Even if it had only been idle imagination, a dream, it would have been worth the journey. Finding it to be real is almost too much. Thank you.” Ferox wasn’t certain if pressed, if he would laugh or weep for the joy of it. It was, as he had said, nearly overwhelming.

His face screwed up, “No thanks, _amora_. They are not needed or desired. This is your home too. Come, let us go find something suitable to wash trail dust from throats and maybe a quick dip to rinse it off.” Waving a hand, “Vela - could you see about someone filling up a few glass oil lamps with water and a frostrock in each? To hang about the bedroom while we get cleaned up? I have some in my pack, but the bedroom is too large for the few I brought.”

Then Ferox was dragged off, Zevran nearly hopping up and down trying to contain the urge to show everything off and explain endlessly. Ferox was grateful he suppressed most of it, only pointing out ‘important’ bits, like where the kitchen was - across the building, their bathroom, and their bedroom. The sketches in the dirt were here, but instead of guesses at what Zevran was describing, there was actual colour and texture, and he didn’t have to substitute in things he knew, to fill in what he thought he understood. To describe a mosaic and to see what it actually was, were two completely different things. Imagining a picture made with tiny tiles, he had mentally painted them, making them the canvas, even given the information that the colours and shapes made up the larger picture. With Zevran bouncing next to him, Ferox looked for a long time at the complex mosaics that dotted the bathroom, tiny tiles no larger than a thumbnail creating dolphins flanked by a man and woman with fishtails in the tub. The flower that ringed and filled the commode, and the organic vines of the sink. It was all there. He saw immediately where his attempt at trying to ‘see’ the thing in his mind had gone the wrong way.

Every room, every wall, every corner, there was something that had been discussed or mentioned on a dark night awoken from a nightmare or on a dull stretch of endless road. Even deep in the Fort, he had told himself these ‘stories’, repeating the whiskied words, distracting himself, clinging to sanity amidst the pain of what was done to him. He had probably, at some point, described them while under torture, as he had gone deep trying to blot it out, the jeering and laughter, not to defy, but to find some safe haven. Sitting on the teak bench beneath the cascade of water, Zevran stood nearby, lathering himself up. To have that safe haven be real, not a dream, was too much and Ferox had to grab for the elf’s waist, and press his face into the ridged abdomen. For a moment he was terrified he had gone mad, that he was still in the dungeons, or perhaps his footsteps were being commanded by the Archdemon while his mind sought safety. But it was real, there were too many details, too different from what he had envisioned, it was real, it was a relief, and he couldn’t help it any longer, not with the warm water flowing over him, not with the soap stinging his eyes as he ignored it, and began to shake. 

“Let it out, _amora_ ,” hands cupped his head. 

Gasping out as the tears he hadn’t been able to cry for so long escaped, “It’s real. Zevran, it’s real.”

“Yes, it is, _querido,_ ” softly, soothingly. 

“The mountainscape, with the raised plaster, the fish, the,” choking on it and he just gave up, mumbling, “it’s all real, you’re real. This is real. We’re here. No more Blight, no more Fort... No more.”

Zevran was quiet but for making reassuring noises, affirming that yes, it was real, not a dream. He didn’t have to fight anymore. There were no demands to be made of him, he could do as much or as little as he wished. No more people telling them that they needed this or that before they would be willing to do what was needed, no more menial tasks, no more bandits, no more being shot at, no more wolves biting at chinks in armour, no more. It was done. It was gone. No more counting out precious coins to keep clothed and fed, no more tents unless desired, no more blistered feet, driving through mud and blood and rain, unless that was wished. He was safe. They were safe. Breaking down, Ferox let it out in great shuddering sobs, crying in relief, weeping for those who were lost, ones who would not know this safety, crying that he was _free_ , and sobbing because he was not alone, and he had not been abandoned or forsaken.

Pulling away and wiping at his running nose, “It’s all perfect...’cept the door’s not turquoise.”

Zevran scooped a handful of water over Ferox’s face to help clear away the snot, “You and I will paint it as soon as some turquoise paint can be found, _amora._ ”

“Can we keep it turquoise?” knowing it was absurd, but that was what he wanted, and hoped he didn’t sound like a needy child with the request.

“Of course, _amora,_ ” his lover leaned down to kiss his brow. “Turquoise door you want, turquoise door you get. _Braska_ \- if you want the whole bloody house turquoise it can be done.”

“No, no. Just the door, so I know which one leads to home. It is enough, everything is more than enough because you are here.” Sniffing, Ferox hugged Zevran tightly to him again, putting himself back together for a minute or two. A deep breath, “Tell me, what is ‘ _braska_ ’?”

“You ask this now after years of hearing it?” chuckled, and then soapy hands were lathering Ferox’s hair gently. “It means ‘back end trash’. Or shit. I picked it up from Fewrlin, it sounded better to say when I went back to the Crows - not a one of them knew I was saying an obscenity. I used to call one of my masters ‘El Braska’ - he thought it was a compliment.”

“Said most respectfully, I would guess, too.” He closed his eyes, enjoying the fingers in his hair, the warmth of the sun in his arms, just little bits of the entire dream...the entire reality, the truth. 

“Mmn, why of course, _amora_.” Zevran tipped Ferox’s head back to rinse the soap free and worked another sort of paste in, something that smelled warm and familiar. “So pleased with it was he that he began to insist all call him that. For respect of course.”

Laughter, “Of course.” Ferox sobered, “Zevran, I did give full disclosure. My kingdom was small and only what you saw. Why did you accept, if you have so much?”

“Because it did not have what I truly needed. Rich in all but spirit and love. As I said - a pauper or in a tent, a king or a bann, a sellsword or a beggar.” Long massaging strokes to his scalp then the paste was also rinsed away, some other jar was scooped from, and Zevran squatted to begin lathering Ferox’s shoulders and chest. “You gave me what I needed and was afraid to need. Afraid to have even. Purpose first. A goal...acceptance. Caring for me gave you purpose, a personal thing to affect. Seeing to my needs so closely, made you see to yours. It made me real to you. And it made me real when I had not been. Through your eyes I saw something worthwhile in myself. Even when I felt you must despise me, if I could heal or drive you towards something else - that had become my purpose. Not the Blight, but to make you live again. To not waste your years the way I had wasted mine. You were capable of great love, else you would not have hurt so much. While I was confused and numb, not understanding why I no longer found meaning or worth or value in anything. By giving me those things, I could not help but find that there was more in myself than existing. It was terrifying that losing you, losing purpose, meant more than anything else ever had. Survival did not matter to me, not mine. You were my Maker, and I could not help but love you for it. Until I loved you as yourself, and then that too was given to me.” 

The hands were slick and ran a comforting counterpoint as they moved over him. “Zamitie loves all. It is what she is. So her love of me is freely given, and is different than what you give me. A gift that is solely for me. Not gloves, not boots, not a kingdom. The trust when you let me place a blade to your throat to shave your face as though I am doing nothing more than passing you the bowl of salt. The way you do not grouse if you become tangled in bedding, or if you sleep on your side rather than flat on your back. The way you hold me as though I am the only thing true and real in your world when you are frightened... ‘Love’ and ‘trust’ and ‘comfort’ and ‘safety’ - these words are _too small_. I would that I could show you what beats in my breast, _amora._ I am a man and I am _alive_ , truly alive. How could I _ever_ reject such a thing simply because it does not come with a large quantity of earthly baubles?”

Ferox didn’t know. In all honesty he had thought he had done the same. Although he probably had given up everything for selfish reasons - he didn’t want the titles, didn’t want the power, didn’t want to collect taxes and tithes, didn’t want the vassals, and most definitely didn’t want to be in charge of anything, ever again beyond where to plant the potatoes. During the Blight, Ferox was never certain which of the assassin’s stories were true and what weren’t, all, some, or none. The one that had meant the most, other than Zevran himself, was the imaginary, well, the no longer imaginary, plantation. It was a place that he wanted very much to be, true, and was unlike anything he knew, much like Zevran himself. After a while he had stopped questioning, stopped asking why the elf was there, and not _just_ there, but in his tent and in his bed, stopped trying to figure out why someone would stick tiles to the walls, floor, _and_ roof, or why flavours that went into cookies wound up on meat. 

Shaking his head, Ferox finally spoke, “I don’t know why anyone would reject that either. I love you and I am grateful.”

Zevran lay his head on Ferox’s shoulder, “I did say that I would make sure to steal enough to keep a roof over our heads. And I _did_ steal those deeds... There is also still a stable nearby. No barns, we do not use them as such, so a stable will have to do. And we also still have our tents... Ferox, honestly, we can live however or wherever, within reason. I just have had more years to build all this up, so now I share it with you, because these things - they are just...things. Nice things, yes. Things I like, yes. But they truly are just possessions. They do not make life _life_. So - we have things. Now, let us enjoy one of those things like some fluffy towels and go try out those iced fruits. Perhaps by now the bedroom will be cool enough to allow you to sleep.”

....

Ferox found that riding out to check on the plantation’s grounds was refreshing, and asked many questions, so many questions. Though the work hours were still baffling. In the evening there were often those making sure animals were fed or milked, but mostly after the sun was down, it was the preparations for the next morning’s push to do those things that required full light were what was focused on. But nights still ended earlier on the plantation than they did in the city, and he could see from the slaves’ quarters plenty of lights, knowing that they were going about their own business. Logically he knew that of course this couldn’t be how all plantations were run, but it was still nice to see. 

During the days, Zevran was usually going over piles of documents with Vela or practicing his skills, keeping them sharp, but after the _siesta_ period, he would go for a run, which Ferox usually joined him in. Through the rows of trees and around the patches of other areas, to the main road and back was their usual path. The turquoise paint had to be ordered from the city, so it took several weeks to get there, partially because it was also waiting for a few other odds and ends that Ferox had said he wanted. When it arrived, instead of letting the houseslaves paint it, Zevran had donned a pair of old leggings and a tunic, as had Ferox, and they painted the double doors together. 

Every seventh day as soon as they got up from the other sleeping bout that happened in the wee hours of the night and lasted until dawn, Zevran could be found in the kitchen, and would cook for hours, large pots of food being ferried down by volunteers to the slave quarters, vats of soup and rice and beans and plates of couscous that required three people to carry them. And then he would _clean_. Sweaty and drained as though he had just fed an army, which, considering the plantation housed just around four hundred people, including the children, may as well have been that, his lover would crawl into the tub and then to bed, wanting nothing more than to be held. The sixth day rotation of slaves likely prepped the items the assassin would need for his cooking, so that it could all actually be done, but there seemed to be a type of comfort for the Crow in those activities that Ferox couldn’t deny. 

Ferox had been introduced as ‘Ferox’ to Vela, and he was grateful for that as well. If anyone tried anything else, he corrected and continued with whatever topic had caught his interest, trying to learn everything he could; many plants and techniques were familiar, many were not. There was an awkward moment when bending to help a man move some heavy supplies, and his Warden amulet slipped out of his tunic. Receiving a strange look, Ferox was asked if he was an ‘ _Alcaide_ ’. When he asked what that was, the man pointed to his chest, to the amulet. Realizing that ‘ _Alcaide_ ’ meant Warden, Ferox gave a nod and slipped the it back into his collar. Immediately, ‘ _Alcaide_ ’ was used as title to address him, but he quickly re-emphasized that he was just ‘Ferox’. He had spent two years dehumanized by the use of that title, he didn’t want to continue it in this new life.

Two months into their tenure at their personal slice of perfection, a messenger came with a job for Zevran. Several jobs in fact. It was the price of their freedom, of their home, Ferox knew that. It didn’t mean he liked it. Especially since they were not the sort of job he could accompany Zevran on. He supposed that the honeymoon couldn’t last forever though.

“They will not be difficult, _querido_. We could go up to Zama’s, just think of it as a visit. When I am done, I can show you some of the city’s sights,” setting down his coffee cup. 

Searching the familiar face, Ferox nodded. Having regular conversations with various members of the staff, he was improving, if not his pronunciation and vocabulary, but his understanding of Antivan. Perhaps the city itself would not be as overwhelming on the second go-round. 

As much as he enjoyed being on and learning about the plantation, it did not even occur to Ferox to stay behind, “When shall we leave?”

“Tomorrow will be soon enough, Ignacio is nominally my master now, and _he_ is unlikely to make any attempt to keep me on a short leash, hmn?” amused as he spread one of those thick pastes on a slice of thick and warm dark bread and added a slice of sharp cheese to it. “I am assuming he will eventually send Cesar back to Ferelden to re-establish business there, but I do not think he should go back. He is not in poor health, but Ferelden is a harsh place for one of Ignacio’s years and experience. It will not be kind to him as he ages. Truthfully though, I do wonder why he would wish to hire me out, considering that he has several cells under his control now. These jobs are easy as I said, something I could have done when I first finished my _Culminacion_. Mph, likely that it is politic to make a show that I am not let to run loose.”

Stretching out his left leg to rest his the foot on an unoccupied chair, “Or there is something you will recognize, based on experience, or more probably, your specific experiences. He doesn’t seem like one to give insults...that is not the word I want. To bore you, I suppose is a better way to put that.”

“Hmn, true, he is cagey,” lips quirked. “Did you know before Ignacio went to Ferelden, there was no cell there? Not worth the time. But he was chasing a rogue Crow who had killed their master, refusing to claim the title. So he went there, and killed her. At least, that is what they _say_. However, what _I_ think is that he remained so close to the Alienage is because that rogue Crow - she was an elf. And there are only two elves amongst those he brought with him from Ferelden. And only one of them is a Crow, nor old enough to be that little wayward bird. But the other would be the right age to be the Crow’s _daughter_. Very neat and tidy.”

“The trouble with Ferelden is that it is very hard and unforgiving, and you know I do not mean just the weather. But perhaps Cesar left friends or family behind as well, or maybe he actually does like it. Stranger things have happened and we have been witness to them. Although, I have a question, would that one, who would be about the right age, have been the same bride who was hauled off by the Arl’s son...Vaughan?”

Zevran cocked his head, thinking, “Yes, she would I believe. Hah - crafty indeed!”

“I’ve stopped believing in coincidences where Ignacio is concerned. And the skill that would have been required to get out of that place...it was hard enough for us to get out.” Ferox felt an old expression he hadn’t worn in a while, one made especially during the Blight, one that made for terrible headaches, on his face. He didn’t like it and didn’t like where the thought of escaping the Arl’s estate was going to lead him...straight to the dungeons at Fort Drakon. 

“Oh, he would not have gone in personally, though it is not that I think him incapable, but a Crow Master does not tend to put themselves forward for any such undertaking - it is one of the perks, few though they are,” sardonic. Shuddering, “The paperwork alone on having to kill one of your own cell for punishment - atrocious!”

Feeling the descent into the darkness Ferox began again, “From the story you told...” but was interrupted.

“I have killed four of my masters,” another bite was taken. “But that is different than the Crow Master ordering the death. No one ordered those deaths but myself. They irritated me. Figured that a new one could not be so bad, or could at least be broken in. Like trying on a new hat. After throwing the old one down a composting shoot to get pissed on by a large mammal or ten.”

Before the chill of temper settled, it occurred to him that he was being allowed a way out of his sinking without having to explain. Gamely, Ferox commented dryly, “You wear very few hats,” and grabbed a slice of bread and cheese for himself, leaving the odd paste to Zevran.

His lover grinned, “Because I keep throwing them down the composting shoot.”

“I assume, this is a reason you have been assigned to Ignacio, you do not seem to mind him terribly and your pet appears to like him...or studiously avoids growling at him.”

On the way back to the City, he was able to take in more of their surroundings without being too lost in the amazing wash of green. Ferelden was green, but green of a different hue, in a very different way; Ferelden was the green of pine trees mostly, and brown where man had laid his roads and farms. The fields there were not as plentiful or so close together. Fertile land there was not rare. Granted, it was covered with trees and had to be cleared, hard work for the young, harder if one was older or without oxen. Mostly, the trees were cut, the new field would lie fallow for a few years, then the removal of stumps began. Fire worked to some extent, but there was always a risk of lighting great swaths of land aflame. Lightning usually did this during dry summers, burning the underbrush so that the deer were plentiful. Burning also made way for berries and ferns, both important sources of food for two and four-legged alike. Here, this was not wild beauty, rather it was highly cultivated, the organized growing of neat rows of crops and raising of animals, some fields left fallow with a green cover, always something in the rotation to rebuild the soil. In Ferelden, for the most part, rural farmers grew enough for their family, for winter, and perhaps a bit of a cash crop to sell at the markets. Those closer to cities or a noble’s keep, had more labour to put to use, growing even more and catering to the needs of the nearby populace. The Bannorn’s farms grew most of the grain crops, something that was not extremely perishable and was fairly easy to transport in burlap sacks in wagons. Here, everything flowed towards the city like a great river to the sea. 

Looking back over his shoulder at the mountains behind them, he wondered, if on the other side was the great desert which Zevran had mentioned. Was that what kept invaders out of this lush farmland? True, the elf had also talked of wandering bands of various tribes, elves and horseclans and Free Blades, which sounded like mercenaries. Were they hired to protect the borders? Or were they more like the Crows? Yet another puzzle this land presented.

The other thing that puzzled him greatly was that Zama-mama had said that Zevran was not yet middle age, yet he was more than twice Ferox’s own age. Did elves live longer than humans? He hadn’t really thought about it. Knew that they looked younger longer, even in Ferelden where life was fairly harsh. Zevran said he had a child more than Ferox’s age. Yet this one acted like a child in the Zama-mama’s presence. She was how old and appeared to be a fine strong woman with not more than a hint of silver in her hair? This line of thinking hurt his head, but when he was facing thirty years, he wondered how these long lived individuals could tie or devote any time to him. Stewing on this for several miles, it wasn’t until his eyes fell on Horse - a lifetime even shorter than his own, a lifetime joined to his, a creature most precious to him - that he understood. However, to link one’s life to another person, not slighting his faithful friend in any way, Ferox wasn’t a fool, his moment of passing would hurt Zevran terribly. This was not a pleasant thought at all. No wonder the Zama-mama was so interested in keeping him in good condition…to put off the harm his death would do to her child. In the several months spent in the city, she spent several hours a week going into some deep trance that left him shaking, ravenous, filthy, and exhausted. Ferox had not been afraid of death, and in many ways was still unafraid of it. He would have taken the Archdemon’s blow if only to end the hurt and ache in his heart, he saw it as the perfect opportunity to put down too many burdens for his shoulders to carry. The only thing that stopped him was Zevran’s own fear, Zevran’s request not to be forsaken. A fear he shared, because so many others had left him, had chosen to stay behind and die one terrible night. And here, in this place, Ferox was the one most likely to fail first, a blink in the eye of these long lived people. 

“So, what _is_ on the other side of these mountains?” having put away the borrowed spyglass after peering around, knowing from repeated ‘instruction’ - that was more like scolding - that Fymataf would simply adjust to whichever way he moved and keep going in the correct direction. 

Zevran kicked a foot from a stirrup to curl around his saddle horn, slouching and getting comfortable while Tigress sprawled over his chest, head tucked under his chin. “Directly to the south would be the Weyrs, not much grows there - stone strewn steppes, until you get to the wild rivers, but that is the Free Marches. Those stretch past even the Silent Plains. In the river valleys there are settlements aplenty, but wherever the land is not fit for farming, that is where the _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ live. It has always been their way. Roaming and herding from oasis to oasis. The Seleny River cuts here -” pointing towards Antiva City, “and stretches towards the river city of Seleny, with its origins welling up that forms Gilded Lake. From here we cannot see the river itself, it has no road beside it, as it _is_ a road. The two river basins - the one here, and the one on the outskirts of the Weyrs - are where most of Antiva’s arable land is other than the very coastal regions. There tends to be a great deal of tension between the city states and Antiva about just who owns those stretches of green. They do not have enough people to populate and farm it, but sit on it jealously anyway. And of course ask us for assistance whenever they have poor harvests.” 

He snorted derisively at the perceived folly, then rubbed his nose to a pink one. “There are a few Free Blade bastions there, families and the sort, training for border patrols, and hiring out for missions. Mercenary towns, however they would more closely resemble what you are used to in Ferelden. South and west of the Weyrs are the Green Dales. That, there is no contention on - that is part of Antiva, and that also contains the tributaries that make up the knot of wild rivers. But again, like other places, farms and plantations stick close to the rivers, while the horseclans take the rolling plains and steppes. Further west there is the Hundred Pillars...” A hand waved in that direction, “Sometimes fools try to make settlements there. If they are successful, no one knows, as we never hear from them. Likely raided for slaves by the Tevinter. But between the mountains and here, directly to the west of where we are now, is the river and Seleny. Going north will get you to the sands and rock. The Drylands. North and west, across the Drylands eventually you hit Arlathan Forest - though it is far more jungle than forest, but there are edges that are closer to what you would know. That is Dalish held area, no one in their right mind travels there without permission or pointy ears. But there is a large trade town, Brynlaw, where Antivans, Rivanians, Dalish, and the _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ meet frequently. And that is Antiva save for the northern port cities that rest on the connecting bar that join Rivain to the continent. Basically.”

Trying to set everything in his mind, to position it in the right locations, briefly Ferox thought of Loghain and remembered it was not the man that was important, it was the association with maps. A map would greatly assist to see the terrain and match it to the words, not that one was actually needed, or that he would do anything with the information, but for curiosity’s sake alone. He did miss the library at Amaranthine, returned some of the books to Fergus that Howe had graciously saved from the fire, but neither library had anything other than general maps this far north. Cities, ports, a few rivers, but not like the detailed maps that Loghain made. Realizing that he was not going to resolve this issue, as he was not going to sit down and draw maps, Ferox preferred larger movements, actual work with his hands. But that didn’t mean that he couldn’t enjoy others’ work in these pursuits. When tired, it was comforting to sit down with a history book, a book of maps so he could visualize the ground and surroundings, and settle in for a quiet evening. Perhaps when he was no longer able to physically do things for himself or encountered a long cold winter - not bloody likely here - he would write that history with the detailed map he had received from Loghain, one that had the new things they had discovered on their journey, all of the little encounters marked...well, it was a thought. In the meantime, there were other things that needed to be done - No, there were other things that he _wanted_ to do. 

Looking at Horse dancing round them, happy to be on the road again, another thought occurred to him, “I haven’t seen any other mabari here. Are there kennels at the Circle or do the Wardens or somebody else have them?”

“Ah... _no_ , no, no I should think not,” Zevran rubbed the back of his neck. “Dogs are not particularly...you see...ah...well. How to say this? No, I should just, yes, blunt. Factual. Well, you see, _amora_ , Antivans eat dogs. Well, in street food, or if one is very poor. They are pests. Rats, rabbits, squirrels, dogs...pretty much anything other than cats, and in very poor areas, well, even those are not safe... But mostly they are pests that eat garbage.” His assassin cleared his throat, “One never particularly knows what meat is being used, and the intelligent just do not bother asking. If it tastes edible and does not make you sick, well, then, there you go.”

Watching the ears, “Mabari are not ‘dogs’. Canine certainly, but as far from a ‘dog’ as oxen are to that horse you are riding - both herd animals, but very different creatures.” Ferox did not add that Horse would be very tough and stringy due to the hundreds of miles already under his paws - perhaps a long slow braiser, terracotta or pit roasting might make him palatable. Shaking his head, he stopped imagining ways to eat Horse, something he had never considered doing before, not even in jest. “He isn’t food.”

“And that would be why he is still able to hop and run and play, _querido_ ,” sheepish. “They are not sure what he is. If they realized he was a canine then there might have been some...misunderstandings.”

“And by misunderstanding, I assume you mean somebody else would be missing a limb. What is used to round up sheep around here?” Horse and Ferox snorted at the same time, “Food. And Fereldens are supposedly the barbarians.” 

“Plenty of people to round up the sheep, _amora_ , many on horseback also,” his lover shrugged. “Animals are food here, _querido_. With such a densely packed population, any source of meat is to be utilized. Including horses. Even people if things are bad enough... That was why Zamitie was sold into slavery. The lands her clan travelled went through a particularly harsh several years, so the elders voted that they should be removed and ah...used...to buy time for the clan to come up with another solution. The solution was to sell some of the clan into slavery - volunteers only. Zamitie...came to her mantle of power very young, _amora_. Twenty-five perhaps? Fewrlin was very small. But she insisted that she would not let the people be sold if she was unwilling to be sold as well... The coin earned from the sales allowed them to buy enough supplies to last, a few marriages and trades with other clans got them temporary herding routes... And so she has not been back since. But we are a people who will do whatever it takes to continue to some form of prosperity. Including the eating of our dead.”

“So the valleys _must_ be lush to support the large population, which is also growing. Where will the farming be extended to, to feed the additional mouths? Or are there some kind of controls on preventing excessive numbers other than gnawing on each other?” This was not a problem in Ferelden and after the Blight, they would actually have the opposite problem, along with starvation because those on the exposed farms had been vulnerable. Reminding himself again, that this was Alistair’s problem...Fergus’ problem, and not something he need solve.

“Birth control - most families have one child. Men consume powders to still their seed. It is really only slaves or the very wealthy who have more than one usually,” glancing up at the sky. “Also the Crows help with the population control. When the population of Antiva City grows too large in some places, cullings occur. Gang violence, crimes that have been committed - all are punishable by death during those times. I never said that Antiva is perfect, _amora._ It has many issues, overpopulation is one of them. If things become too much of a problem, usually plague works its way through sectors, or there winds up being border clashes with the Free Marches, the Qu’nari have made occasional feints near Brynlaw, so of course people wind up marched that way. Tevinter’s slaving practices are mostly confined to the Hundred Pillars, so we often ship the unwanted that way...”

Rubbing an eye socket with the heel of his palm, Ferox muttered, “Reminds me of an Orlesian tale of a barber and a pie shop.”

“However, the reason our farming is the way it is, is because it is created to support us. Perhaps every five to ten years a fever winds up spreading, taking out the weak. The reason we seem to be so healthy, _amora_ , is because only the strong survive,” indicating a few people they were passing who were sleek limbed and herding a few sheep along the road to some destination. “There are also very regular intervals between streets running red with blood from warring factions and cells. Feuding merchant princes, aristocrats...even the tradesguilds. It keeps things in some form of check. We take a census every three years, to make sure that there is no population explosion.” Zevran glanced at him significantly, “It may sound cold and calculated, which I will not deny, because it is. But it is like a farmer with far too many hogs, ones he cannot sell, or watch over, or feed - he has to choose which pig becomes bacon.”

“You may name the faithful sow, but never one of the piglets. Do it once and you’ll never forget the lesson learned the following autumn.” Ferox sighed, “Well, my good hound, it appears that if you’re going to have a girlfriend, we’re going to have to import her...although it would be better if you picked her out yourself and got her to agree, preferably one not currently Imprinted - a tall order, given that there aren’t any nearby.” 

They did take a good long nap in the afternoon as always, and like last time rode through the night. By the time they reached the city’s outskirts dawn had come and gone, the heat steadily rising. Wiping sweat from his brow, Ferox grabbed the waterskin that hung from his saddle, taking a swig of the heavily juice sweetened water. For a people that had to worry about population control, they certainly had many luxuries. Perhaps that was the trade off. Sighing, he simply took another swig, these were not things to change, or that he could change, or even wanted to try and change. He would find contentment in Zevran’s circle of influence, besides - who was he to say if a system was wrong, if it had managed to work, and create so many beautiful things? 

Even the little salt and spice boxes that the slaves had, were works of art, tiny compartments and sliding lids revealing new things, considered a bit of daily survival to one and all. But they were gorgeous, precious things to Ferox’s eyes, the one in his belt pouch having been given to him by Zevran and carved from a small chunk of ebony. Yet when he asked how much it cost for one of those small pieces of artwork, there was a confused frown from Vela who had to ask for clarification, and then was told that eight or nine could be bought for a silver, ten if one was going to be buying more than a silver’s worth. A single _silver_. That someone had spent hours creating those spice boxes, no larger than half his palm, to house three or five types of spices to add to food to make it _taste_ better - in Ferelden the cost of one would be easily ten silvers at least. When he pointed that out to Zevran, the message was then relayed to Vela, who later pestered Ferox for information - what sorts of spices and herbs did Fereldens like to use? Who could afford a few silvers, so on, so forth. Then a box of a hundred of them had appeared, carved from apple, cherry and pear woods, with Vela excitedly yammering about where such items could be sold, what manner they could be sold in - and then the box was shipped off to Ignacio who was likely to have a vessel sent to Ferelden at some point in the near future. 

Several more boxes were found also, ones that were quickly filled to the brim, but Ferox warned that Ferelden in its current state would have little coin to spare for such luxuries. Vela had laughed and said that it was bound for the Free Marches and another for Rivain. To them the boxes were not worth much of anything, just a useful thing to hold other things. The fact that they were lovely had little bearing on worth. Men, women, children - many made such clever items just for the sake of something to do with their hands. Much like Zevran whittling bone or wood handles in winter - it was simply cultural. But for other places, other people, they would be willing to pay for these trinkets. It just took shipping and finding an outbound merchant. Ferox had asked Zevran what was done with the money earned from those transactions, and he just shrugged, saying it belonged to the slaves to do with as they pleased.

It seemed to be another case of not ‘just surviving’. Although in Ferelden little crafts items were made, they were ones associated with keeping warm or fed. Winter was a time for the repair of clothing, knitting mittens, hats, scarves, repairing tools, keeping on top of food about to turn in the cellars and preserving it before they went bad taking the entire cellar with it. Hands were not idle, but they were not employed in the same way...but also there didn’t seem to be the ‘rush’ of the seasons here. In Ferelden, if a crop didn’t go in the ground by a certain time, it would not be ready to harvest before the first frosts and the seed would be gone. After the first frosts and when the cold set in, the slaughtering of the excess animals would begin. The cold being the best way to quickly cool and then keep the carcasses until other means of preservation were used, smoking, salting, drying... When winter came, people were housebound by the cold or deep snow, there were periods of extreme activity and extreme idleness...well not laziness, but no great physical activity. In some ways, Antivans seemed lazy by comparison, sleeping or resting half the day, working until near sunset, but up until late in the evening. Hours could be spent bathing, bathing _every day_ it seemed. And hours to eat. They all moved in a slow glide, only children rushing about - Ferox had watched some of the pickers in the orchard, they had moved in what appeared a slow manner, but by mealtime they had filled many baskets and progressed very far down the rows. 

As the heat increased, Ferox found he couldn’t move as fast as he was accustomed too - not without tiring much quicker and winding up drenched in sweat. He had to push himself to keep up with Zevran for their runs, when he already knew the elf was keeping his ground eating lope to a slower pace for him. The frostrock necklace helped, as did the wristbands Zevran had cobbled together, but mostly Ferox found that after their runs all he wanted was a cool bath and to crawl into their bed that was ringed with more of those cooling lamps for an hour. Which his lover never allowed, always forcing him to a warm bath and sipping tea until his body temperature regulated. There were so very many little details of their day to day lives that were so freakishly different, but similar enough to throw Ferox off. It was those similarities that startled him the most. 

Zamitie was waiting for them, or more precisely, she looked unsurprised when they entered, continuing her work with a steady knocking tap-tap-tapping on some long handled thing, plasma, ink and blood seeping from the minuscule and tightly spaced wounds on her customer. The young woman under her hands bore a peaceful expression, sitting up to help dab away the leakage from her thigh while Zamitie reached for more ink. Zevran was told to put a pot of coffee on, but Ferox wanted to watch the process a bit more, curious about the permanent painting of skin going on. Instead he did as bid, trailing after Zevran who once more walked him through the process of preparing coffee, hand grinding the roasted beans to a fine meal while his lover made some thick syrup to use as a sweetener for the milk, one hand juggling out several tall glasses. 

While Zevran was gone to Ignacio’s for information on the jobs, Ferox was put to work, finding metal wire and pliers put into his hands, while Zamitie showed him how to make small baubles. His work was sloppy, but earned praise when done correctly, each little sign of progress earning him a pat on the cheek or a kiss on the brow, even as he didn’t see the purpose in the baubles, it was nice to sit beside Zamitie who smelled sweetly of something comforting, and work quietly. It nearly reminded him of sitting with his mother, the two of them repairing torn knees and elbows from his clothes. Zevran had come back one evening, smacked a heel to his forehead and yammered and gesticulated at Zamitie about giving him something that he would see purpose in, rather than jewelry. At the mention of chainmail, Ferox had perked up, but Zamitie had made a moue of distaste for ‘unliving and unholy’ materials, but relented when seeing his likely overly hopeful expression. 

Later, as Ferox made rings around a dowel for the chain links, Zevran had his head in Zamitie’s lap, grumbling, “Aie, my head rings...”

Zamitie ran a hand over his face, “What did _this_?”

“A mule, got kicked...hit...whatever...mule. _Brat_!” rolling his head to one side, whimpering pathetically like a little boy. Mumbling, “I found out why those jobs are so easy. Little bitch.”

Zamitie rapped him firmly between the brows, “Language.”

“ _She nearly broke my face!_ ” jaw set and glowering. 

“I can see that, _gatito_. Now lie still so I can Work, Zevran, else you will get the roots of those teeth infected and we will have to pull them,” saying his name strangely, almost a ‘Zev-ah-rahn’ to the rolling of the words.

Ferox wasn’t certain who’s growl was louder, his or Horse’s, “She who?”

“‘pprentice,” grumbled as a Zamitie bit into her thumb, the skin somehow splitting and parting around her teeth quickly and cleanly, droplets falling against Zevran’s upturned cheek.

“Your apprentice? Kicked...hit...did _that_ to you? What? No holds barred sparring? Not even Oghren would do that to you when berserk.” The growling, at least from Horse, who was wise enough not to speak, grew louder.

“The girl from the Alienage,” was Zevran’s answer. “The one who Ignacio brought from Ferelden. I had to pull her into an alcove to hide as I did not know she could stealth - _apparently_ she is a no touching zone. Ever.”

Zamitie shushed him, “Stop talking, I have to work on this break in your jaw before it spreads Zevran Arainai. You may complain about this child later.”

Ferox bit back his questions because they wouldn’t help with the ‘stop talking’, mainly because Zevran’s answers were so expansive. This was the same girl that he had suggested came from the wedding story which the assassin had told after returning from the Alienage. Confirmed their guesses. A ‘no touching zone’ was probably putting it mildly...especially looking at the damage she had caused. When they first made these guesses, he was going to comment that she had skill to break out of the Arl’s estate - skill, fear, and anger. Sounded familiar. Thankfully, Ferox had not all of them at the same time, two were bad enough, all three together... Three was nothing but a great deal of trouble.

A soft groan of relief and Zevran straightened his body, keeping his head in the apostate’s lap to keep being gently petted. “Ill-mannered child. It is not that I am _unsympathetic_ , but how does something with fists that small _hit so hard_? She stealthes, _braska_ , does she stealth...even I could barely track her when she started. Can barely climb, but that stealth - with that, she would not _need_ to. But it is like she has blinders on - the most straightforward path, no matter if it incurs or requires greater risk - that is the path that _must_ be taken. She cannot act, she cannot keep a civil tone. Sullen, moody, _bitchy_ ,” the last comment got him another rap, “But she is! She makes Morrigan on her worst day appear pleasant and sunny! And that _mouth_! Foulest thing I have ever heard! And she is my apprentice! How am I supposed to instruct someone who would rather use my ears for good luck charms and my testicles for a coin purse than listen to a word out of my mouth?”

Setting down the tools with care and getting to his feet, Ferox said very softly as he left to make use of the sparring room, “She still wants to, needs to, kill them all.” 

Certain he was going to be sick, but wasn’t because that roiling in his stomach was anger, a cold feeling he had almost forgotten in his time here. They should have lit the building on fire, razed it to the ground, it would have been a just end. First Vaughan, then Howe, he didn’t want to think what monster would end up there next. Again, the reminder that this was not his decision, it was Alistair’s, was clung to for the sake of his sanity. His choices had already been made. The journey was planned out and he would not be veering from this path. Yes, there would be unexpected hollows or things of note that were not on the larger picture, but _those_ things, what was behind him, they were done, they were not his, and he would not regret them.

Zevran leaned against the door’s frame, relaxed, but the expression caring without demand, “ _Querido_ , would you like a sparring partner?”

“I think, what I need,” unwilling to take his anger out on his lover, “is a new sword,” reversing the heavy blade as if to strike an opponent behind him. “Starfang is well and good with heavy plate, but your heat nearly makes it impossible to wear, even with your valiant attempts to keep me cool. Without the armour, although I am faster, the moves and lack of counterweight leave too many holes in my defenses and I am much too open.” 

The elf nodded, “Of course. And any blacksmith visited would consider it a coup to forge you a suitable blade.” Zevran held up a hand, “A Crow blacksmith will know who you are, and they are who best forge weapons. Best to enjoy some of the perks. I will ask around to see who is currently...not ‘popular’ but best out of the list. Also, you should switch to light chain for your chest, leather and bone scale for the other areas. Though personally I would agree with Zamitie - leather scale is the best way to go. But that does not fit your style, you need to be able to take heavier strikes.”

Grunting as he suddenly reversed a swing, “Yep, ‘Look at me. I’m the big shem. Now, come and hit me, ya know ya want to.’ Just doesn’t have the same umph to it that all of that growling and snarling and insulting of their sainted mothers does.”

He saw Zevran from the corner of his eye shifting to press his back to the doorframe, feet hiking up on the opposite to keep him locked in an odd seated position, “This ‘sainted mothers’ - I do not understand the saying. Is it an insult? Or to say that they are deceased?”

“I never -” shifting for a pommel strike, “used that term when growling or snarling.” The easy turn into another wide swing, “That would be a son of bitch. But, I don’t need a rap on the head.” Pausing, he lowered his sword, “What can I do for you?”

“I just wanted to see if you would like for me to be near, or perhaps assist with your sparring,” watching him with those gold eyes, burning and shedding warmth that did not make his skin break out in a sweat. At least not with that look. “Whatever you prefer, _amora_. I wanted to make sure you know that I am here for whatever you need.”

Ferox shrugged, “I have already been here today, done this today. But since the blade is one of the heaviest things I can pick up and move about with some skill, it’s reassuring to do so. Especially when needing to, wanting to, kill something, at least within the confines of my mind.”

Zevran nodded, “Very understandable, _mi hermoso corizon_. If the need to actually do so arises, something could easily be arranged. Or if you wish a no holds barred fist fight, there are the underground pit fights.” 

“I’m afraid I’d have to insist on a haircut before trying something like that,” humor returning.

“Hair grows back, _amora_ ,” his tone very reasonable. “But it is a suggestion, whatever you desire, if it will help - then that is what you will have.”

Ferox hung the blade from a set of hooks on the wall before closing the distance between them. “I am happy where I am and with what I have, if I am with you. You, however are hungry from your day. Hop on and I’ll return the patient downstairs.” 

“Oh?” arms quickly wrapped around Ferox’s waist, but just drew him in tightly, holding him close and giving firm squeezes for a long time, head tucked against his chest. “I think this is needed first,” lips brushed over Ferox’s chest, above his heart and another strong hug was had. 

Hugging back tightly, fiercely, “I am glad you were not hurt worse.”

“I leaned back, else I probably would have had far more, she is _strong_ ,” chuckling as he returned it again. “I think her mother must have been babbling while giving birth, because her name means ‘my porch’ and some fool thought it was a name...”

“Which probably doesn’t help, if she even knows.”

“Likely why everyone calls her ‘Mio’,” snorting. “She is a berserker who stealthes and picks locks, and will never be a Crow. Why Ignacio wishes her to be trained... She was freeborn, but, eh, it is not my problem. I will do what I can, perhaps if she can learn to direct her rage, then she might have a chance at some form of an adjusted life. Hmn, I should ask if Ignacio has informed her of the pit fights...it is rare a woman would wish to participate, but it might be good for her.” He shook his head, “Never mind that, beyond teaching what can be taught, she is not my responsibility. You are.”

Incredulously, “I am your _responsibility_?”

Zevran kissed his chin, winking, “Oh yes. It is my responsibility to make you happy, to hold you close, and to spoil you as rotten as I can. Because that is the responsibility of someone who loves you greatly. And one you take to as well. It is not a bad thing, _amora_ , stop looking horrified. Your life and wellbeing are in my care, just as mine is in yours. This is a vast and important responsibility, hmn?”

Walking Zevran backwards out of the room while still embracing in an odd dance like rocking fashion, “Fine. However, if I become a duty, do me a favour and find me a tower.” 

“But what if it is a duty I like?” his lover nearly _pouted_ at him.

“Don’t tell me, as it is a word I don’t like.”

With a short hop, Zevran was in his arms, legs around his waist, “As you desire, _querido._ Fine, you are a man I have bound myself willingly to, and will remain bound to, even if you decided to jump off a tower, and would not regret anything other than not having had more time to enjoy your company and our life together until the abrupt landing.”

Sliding an arm under Zevran’s buttocks, the other remaining firmly wrapped around his waist, “A shame that, you’ll mess up that wonderful face of yours again...especially because she did such a good job repairing your jaw. Teeth such as yours are a rare thing indeed, and to ruin them so foolishly would be a crime.”

“Well - no towers then,” Zevran hung on, getting situated, which was truly odd as he was a man full-grown being carted around like a child. “But they always grow back whenever pulled. It is just that it is extremely unpleasant to pull them, and the gap is always sore and raw until the new one comes in, and no matter what I do, I continue to get food caught in the space until the tooth grows...”

“More teeth?” Ferox was not certain if this was a story that Oghren would be told when very drunk or if Zevran was serious.

Shrugging, “At one point or another they have all been ripped or knocked out. It is an elven thing, I suspect that it is a holdover from before we were Quickened. I imagine that in lifetimes that last thousands of years, some teeth would be lost regularly.”

“That does make sense.” Descending the stairs, even with the elf’s additional weight, Ferox’s steps were lighter then when he climbed up them. “Even in a relatively short life that could be very useful...like in your cage matches.”

“If the tooth is recovered immediately and you came to Zama for a healing, it could be placed back in quickly,” he offered. “Though that is why this one canine is crooked,” pointing to his mouth. “I was not particularly in my right mind when she was trying to wedge it back in.”

“I like it. Helps me to remember that you might not be perfect.” Stopping on a landing for a quick kiss before continuing. “So other than roughing you up in an alcove, going straight for the target, shoving everyone out of the way no doubt, and being _really_ stealthy, what good qualities did you notice in your apprentice, other than, of course, the right hook followed by the mule kick?” 

Fingers ran over his skull slowly, “It was only one _left_ hook that did it. She is pretty, very feminine. Until she moves. Or opens her mouth. Mio will be a pain to deal with, and it is best that she not see or interact with you until she is more comfortable with people. If that ever happens, colour me surprised. But it was all I could do, not to throttle her or speak condescendingly, no matter that I know and understand what she must have gone through. It is a task that interrupts that which I would much rather ‘deal’ with, that being yourself of course. But Ignacio desires I do my best, and will allow two months of ‘freedom’ to one of bondage in teaching her the trade. As an aside - I have never had a personal apprentice, but you see if she is not trained properly...she will die with that temper.” He thought for a moment, “Oh - and her eyes are green. A most peculiar green. With silver rings around her pupils. Quite odd. Bewitching actually. Reminds me of a snake hypnotizing some juicy morsel that is too busy trying to figure out her intentions, while she rips their still beating heart from their ribcage.”

Curiously, “Why keep her in the city? There’s too much to pretend here. She might do better with more...air.”

“She needs to be where she can kill or fight,” Zevran shrugged, then rested his cheek against Ferox’s. “You were right - she needs to kill them all, but cannot. And Ignacio dare not let her be out from under his supervision, and he cannot leave the city. So here she must stay until she finds her way.”

Into the kitchen, “Then I am sorry to the snake and to her handlers. I have considered that even if every single one who did this thing were dead, it wouldn’t be enough, it wouldn’t stop the rage, and it wouldn’t stop the dreams. Does she have something to care for? Perhaps something that needs her is a way in, something she cannot turn away or strike out at.”

“What? Like a kitten? That might work,” Zevran slid from his arms. “Perhaps an experiment, see how she handles Horsie and Tigress?”

“Might want to stress to Horse that it was an ‘accident’ that you were hurt. He’s not stupid,” Ferox grinned. “But yes, neither are human, nor are they put in charge of her. One may be male, but I’m certain he can make up for that with with a wag of his stumpy tail and that face he makes when he laughs.”

“Oh I know he is very intelligent, who else do you think would listen and tell me what to do when I was confused and lost still?” The hound in question came galloping in, chasing Tigress who was hopping and sliding before she rounded on the mabari, flying in to ‘attack’, which Horse let her win, before capturing her with his paws to obsessively clean her from the crown of her head back to her tail. “Flaming creature is a _matchmaker_.”

“A matchmaker? You, who were delirious with cold, are you calling -” Ferox interrupted himself turning to the pair on the floor, “Horse! I said no more hairballs or I’d stuff it back down your throat where it came from.” 

The hound looked up innocently, tongue still plastered to Tigress’ black ‘cloak’. 

Growling, “The least you could do is to clean up after yourself when you’re done hacking and coughing. I stepped on one and had to go back for a dry sock this morning.”

Zevran squatted to pet both animals, “Oh that is nothing...Tigress once was unhappy about her little sandbox not having been cleaned recently. Hairballs in everyone’s shoes. And pee on Taliesin’s head. Vengeful my little kitty is, hmn?”

Snorting, Ferox looked around realizing that things were quiet, “Where did Zama-mama go?”

“She said she was going to go speak with Ignacio,” Zevran shrugged, moving to the stove and began setting up things for the later meal so that they only needed to be cooked, while also setting up a platter of ‘tapas’. “She is a soft touch, _querido._ ”

“Meaning she’s gone to see your little green garden snake?” Gesturing at the things that were being set out, “I can slice and chop things if you’ll tell me where you keep hiding the knives.”

Zevran arched his back to lean his head so that he could get a kiss, muttering, “The rack has drawers, _amora_. Should be the center drawer.”

A kiss was given willingly and hands roamed slipping under the unbelted tunic, desiring the warmth of skin. “I did miss you today.”

“Mmn, and I missed _you_ ,” as he stepped back enough to remain pressed against Ferox, his hands still busy setting a mix of nuts, berries, spices and adding vegetables as they were chopped to a large bowl. He noticed that the onions and the small shallots were being sliced thin, then cut even smaller, a tiny thoughtful gesture that deserved another kiss. “Mmmn, so this is how the cook gets helped? Sign me up to make every meal then.”

“I would do more, but I prefer you with your fingers on. And no, don’t show off for me. I already know how ridiculously awesome you are.” Watching as the knife was set aside, Ferox snagged an earlobe with his teeth before licking the underside. “Will you be re-piercing your ears?”

Zevran’s working hands paused, head tilting as he made another very approving sound, “I do miss them. And frankly I look out of place compared to nearly everyone else. And Zamitie will be better than doing it myself, aiesh, when she found out I put all my holes in at once - standing up no less - she would have paddled my behind for being stupid. Except I was too dizzy from the damage to my ears to tolerate it. So she healed me. Then whapped me. So polite.”

“And sensible.” Ferox quipped, “No wonder I like her.” 

“Oh, I should definitely get my tongue done though, you will like that...” a quirky little grin and his eyes went back to busy hands. “You know, she could perhaps put some of her Work on you, to help with slowing the poison down.”

“She’s been working on me, you complain...nicely, that perhaps I missed a spot after washing without you and we end up taking a bath. Frankly I think it’s an excuse to flay off a layer of skin with your sponges...or you just like playing with hair.” 

He shook his head, “No, no. Like my tattoos. Only a few were not done by her, and those are Crow related. Except the one on my face. That was done by Sa’id when I was six. I thought she was going to _kill_ him.” Zevran chuckled, “There was definitely a fireball thrown and threats of much more. Impotence was one of them.” 

Moving his head to the other shoulder, Ferox looked at the markings. “But those are the best ones. I can understand that your age was perhaps a little young...”

“My mother touched me before she died, after I had taken my first breath, as I gained strength, she lost it,” it wasn’t said sadly, but it held a sort of distance, it was just history that didn’t really affect him. “My first word was ‘mama’ and was said to Zamitie. Apparently she constantly corrected me until allowing me to settle upon ‘Zama’. Some of my first memories are of her telling me about my mother, about things scouts do, about being Dalish. All the things my mother had whispered to me while I grew in her womb. Added in were little things that Zamitie observed - quirks. She did not like forks or spoons or eating with her hands, but as the Dalish here do - with two sticks. Her favourite colour, the shade of her hair and skin. The way she would talk or move. How much she loved me though she had not yet had a chance to see me. But you see, my mother...I...I know these things, but she is not my mother. Zamitie is, it is the smell of her when I was little that could quiet a nightmare, it was her approval I sought. And yet I did not wish to forget Arainai, and at some point, even when I was very small, I knew that I would forget her, lose all this information and reminders of this woman who laboured to bring me to this world. Who, quite literally, gave up her life for me.”

His handsome Crow sighed, “She would have survived the birth with fast healing, but I would have been dead. She told Zama to take her life if it would give me mine. So, she saw me, held me for a moment, touched my face, then died. How can one honour a sacrifice like that properly? I begged Sa’id to put her mark on my face, a permanent thing to keep and to see that no one could ever take from me.” 

Zevran set his work aside, turning in Ferox’s arms, “It is bad luck to put something that immortalizes a death touch. It would make the spirits look at me more, look at me jealously. That is what Zama said, that is what she believes. If it is true? I cannot say. I had asked her first, she said no. She forbade Sa’id from doing it, but my pleas eventually worked on him enough for me to get my way. After that, Zama began Working on me, covering me in signs for good luck.”

Again, what did he know? Other than that Zevran’s markings didn’t look like any of the Dalish they encountered - nearly all of them balanced or symmetrical the colours sepia or other shades of brown, faded depending on age - or any of the markings the dwarves had for whatever that mattered, he hadn’t ever wondered why they were different. He recognized that difference, but it hadn’t been important. Like fingers dragging through sand, he could see what the ink upon Zevran’s face was meant to be and wondered why he couldn’t see it before, it was obvious...if one knew how to look. 

“I don’t confess to begin to know one marking from another. I only know that somehow everything was different when you joined us. Some of these you say are Crow markings, one you label as bad luck, and the rest are good. How do you know? What is different about them?”

Zevran passed him a tray while grabbing the large pot of tea and glasses to head towards the low eating table, “The ones done by Zamitie are not simple artwork. Sigils, runes, prayers. Shapes that are not meant to be identifiable as say...a fish, or a person, or a bird, or a plant. If you look through her artbooks, you will see many representations of ‘real’ things. Or even imaginary things. Like horses with wings as an example. But what few I have that are identifiable as actual objects - those are Crow related. Everything else? That is her Work. She uses more than just ink in those instances, _amora_. She uses her power, her blood and my own mixed with the powders. The next customer she has who wishes inkings, ask if it is alright to watch. Being the ‘curious foreigner’ they will likely say yes in hopes of educating you on being a ‘proper person’. You will see that in those cases, she merely taps away, and while still a beautiful and meditative process, it is not quite the same. ” He touched his side where a mass of pink scars had blurred and ruined old black ink. “I have some repairs that must be made - first she will have to debrade the scar tissue, which will not be...pleasant. Then she will lay fresh in. And you can watch that, and then you will see.”

Following, Ferox set the dishes on the table. The ‘proper person’ brought him back to the barbarian issue, which he couldn’t do anything with. Why was having anything on one’s skin important...well, Rory did do something stupid, and Ferox still didn’t know how he felt about that. In identifying the body, the marking was helpful. It was true that there would have been no doubt that it was him and that Rory was actually dead and not rotting somewhere else Howe might thought to stuff him. Taking a breath, this wasn’t a good line of thinking...but it was what he knew. He supposed that if tattoos were used as identification, that children could have their house symbol, or better yet, their name tattooed into their foot or written on their thigh...or over their heart. It was still foolish...without that mark there would have been no reason to haul Rory back to Denerim. It would have been over, quickly, just as Ferox thought, hoped, it had been. 

He already had some distinctive scars that one who knew him better than any could say, ‘Yes, that is Ferox.’ For anyone else there would be a question. He hadn’t set out to be this way, it just was. Would it be more comforting to know that someone was gone, or worse, have evidence that they were being hurt, or not to know at all? Ferox already knew about Rory, or as much as he could know and imagine, and there was guilt there. 

However, in this, it occurred to him that wasn’t his choice, because he wouldn’t be the one to find himself... Now that he hadn’t considered. It certainly made the decision easier, because it wasn’t his choice to make. As for observing this ‘work’, sometimes it didn’t matter what the map showed or what the book said, some things had to be examined directly to be understood. 

Zevran held one of the lemon stuffed olives up to his lips, “What she would do is not simply for beauty, _querido_ , but like...ah I know - think of it like a rune to lend you greater ability to resist say...mind control, or to prevent being knocked back. Or to heal faster. But a permanent rune.”

Regardless of what it was, or did, or meant, wasn’t really the issue any more. And the discussion, although interesting, fascinating really, was no longer what he wanted to know, so he asked, “Zevran, is this something that you want?”

“No, this is something that might buy you greater health, _amora_. But it is a suggestion, nothing more. If you do not wish to have it, then do not have it done. Whether it would perhaps add five minutes or five days or five years - who is to say?” he shrugged. “It may just be superstition, and Antivans are nothing if not superstitious, but _Ga’hals_ take it to an entirely different level.”

“It may be my skin, but you’re the one who looks at it, not me. I’m too busy looking at how beautiful you are. That’s why I’m asking.”

Zevran cocked his head, “You are to me, the most handsome man I have ever seen, _mi hermoso corizon._ Half your face could be missing, or you could have lost a limb, or an eye, or even, Fortuna preserve us, lost your manhood - and you would still be perfection in my eyes. Grey hair and no teeth, ‘stoved up’ as you would say, walking with a cane, or striding along in perfect health and vitality - you would remain the same handsome man. With tattoos, without tattoos. With breasts or with chest hair - I care not. What I do wish for is that you remain healthy and with a good quality of life, and happiness for as long as possible. She suggested it when I had not thought of it, and so now, I suggest it to you. Your scars and markings are exciting to me, but if they were not there, your perfect flesh would be exciting as well.”

“I would hazard a guess, just like most things said to stave off the damage caused by the Taint, the sooner begun the better? Which is why, since we have time here, that is until you throw up your hands or, in the alternative, throw your snarling apprentice into a cage match, such ‘work’ could begin to take place,” a grin began to replace the seriousness caused by his earlier disturbing thoughts - thoughts that led down a path of guilt and what-if’s.

“Just so, _amora_ ,” a smile playing out over the sun’s face and in those gold eyes, relief too. 

And there was the answer. Five minutes or five days or five years, even nothing at all, it didn’t matter. It was giving Morrigan what she wanted, because Zevran needed the comfort of the thing. Not done because she had asked, but because he had. This, a suggestion, Zevran may have been merely meant to pass on, but at the heart of it, it was him asking again. Even though Zevran had been unable to make that request without someone else prompting him to do so. Even when Ferox had asked straight out ‘do you want this’, there was still dodging and evasion. Rather than weighing the options, because Ferox didn’t know anything about this, he asked the one who did know more than he. Yes, the information was useful and the opinion of the scout carefully weighed. What Ferox truthfully wanted to know however, was what _Zevran_ wanted. Thankfully, the answer finally came, and he was grateful as well to see that light.

It burned. Burned like nothing he had ever felt before, not in a bad way, just in a very different way. Somehow there was something nearly...pleasant to that burn. Like muscles that had been worked past the point of easy, and made to continue, leaving an ache behind that wasn’t agony. There was a rhythm to it, the beat of the bone handle tapping on the long stick with its bone needle, reminding him faintly of the street performers with their drums, dancing or fighting, flowing into the next sweep or leap or kick or strike. Counterpoint was a hum in the air, like the buzzing of a thousand worker bees collecting pollen and making honey, made lazy by smoke and drowsily floating along. And then the song began, or the singing itself, and Ferox was pulled steadily down and out into that burn, like stepping into a tub with water that was just a little too hot, but resisting the flinching reaction to step free of it, to acclimate. Sitting still, his head kept nodding along, eyes closing and opening, as though drugged or too drunk to act, but apathetic about it and free of discomfort or sickness. Time passed in an endless, meaningless drift, and he found something flickering in his vision, a pair of dancing flames, and they kept him entranced until something pulled him back, slowly, gently, gradually. 

A soft scrape of a towel over his left pectoral and down to his wrist, repeated once, then again, and again and over his side and part of his back. It brought him back until he was no longer staring without comprehension at the deep cerulean blue ink that was densely packed lines from over his heart, circling a nipple, to his elbow, before the spaces widened, showing more and more skin until his fingers were bare. Blinking at it, seeing it, not understanding what he was suddenly witnessing, the skin scabbed quickly and then continued to heal until the flesh was normal, the texture restored, though oddly bare as all the hair had been shaved away, even those that weren’t seen until the razor blade was wiped clean again and again. Dazedly Ferox rubbed at it with his other hand, as though it would come off. 

“There,” sighing with satisfaction, Zamitie picked his arm up, double-checking everything, tapping her sharp-nailed fingertips lightly over his shoulder-blade. “That is satisfactory. The next step will wait for another day and I will use a darker blue. Would you like to see what has been Wrought?”

Ferox nodded, finding his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth, “Please.”

Her grip was strong as she helped him stand, guiding him to a mirror and positioning his back to it, and held another before him, allowing him to catch sight of what was on his back. A knotwork of incomprehensible shapes, but beautiful nevertheless, caught his eye, running from the nape of his neck on the left side until nearly the center of his ribcage and along his side. They spilled down his muscles, denser at the top, thinning to thorny tendrils at the bottom, just like on his arm. All he could do was stare at the artwork, blind to the rest of his body and its many scars, never ever looking at his face. The markings were nothing like, and yet almost identical in some ways, to what was on Zevran’s body. 

“Do not worry, I will not cover you head to toe, _mu’poushu_. This area will remain the same focus for all of them. Hopefully you will not feel too strange then,” her voice strong and soft, reassuring. “Normally I do not heal the wounds, as I have always believed that the healing and caring for the wound in its natural way is part of binding power to you. But there is the issue of the trance-healings. If you excrete too much sweat, or clean too much - which you must do, then the ink and all that Work would go to waste. Or worse - become infected. It is a series of trade-offs.”

Another nod, it sounded reasonable Ferox supposed, but he knew nothing and he managed a heartfelt, “Thank you, Zama-mama. It’s beautiful.”

“Beauty is best when united with function, and function works when the synergy of beauty is one with it.” She set down the piece of silver backed glass and tapped his arm again, “This will help keep your body clean - on the inside. You might notice that you sweat or void your body more often, but not overbearingly so. Merely feed and water yourself and keep clean, it is only doing its work to help your body process and filter out what it can.”

Reaching for her, Ferox gave Zama a long hug followed by a kiss on the cheek. He was fairly sure that she knew why he did this thing; not for himself but for Zevran. However, what he didn’t know was if she gave this gift only for her child or if it was also for himself. If only bound in the gift for the one who was not here, if only for that one’s sake alone, if it provided what they actually hoped for, or did not, for the sake of the comfort it provided his lover, Ferox would do it. 

When they went to bed that night, it was like getting undressed in front of Zevran for the first time all over again. The amber eyes watching him closely as he set everything out for the next day, checking to make certain that his safety net was there in case there were sounds in the night. Then turning from his required task, he sat on the bed, with the inked side towards Zevran so he could be examined. His lover’s hands felt odd on the smooth and temporarily hairless portion of skin, calloused fingertips coasting along as the designs were examined by touch and by eye. Lips followed fingers, the gold eyes slipping over him with a great deal of fascination, as though truly seeing him for the first time. Also the curiosity that Zevran had refrained from displaying that cold and snowy night was in evidence, gold orbs flicking up to check his expression and gain ‘permission’ for each touch. Ferox scooted more on the bed and moved his arm, allowing it to be flipped this or that way, even when the touch was ticklish around the crook of elbow, where one of the first patches of ink-free skin was, or near his underarm, which had also been shaved clean. He wasn’t sure he liked being hairless, but the cleared patches were sensitized, and looked very odd when held to compare with the other side. Zevran’s smooth cheek was rubbed against the round of his shoulder, hand sliding from ink to the opposite side, back and forth, while the other ran up and down Ferox’s back, a stuttering purr, and he half expected his lover to start ‘grooming’ him, because he was so closely copying the same behaviour Tigress partook of. Including the ear swiveling and twitching, while nuzzling at Ferox’s neck. 

“You’re pleased?” rumbling at him still uncertain, Ferox wanted to hear the words, not just have the reactions.

“Mmmn, you are _very_ handsome, _querido_ , have I said that recently? If not, then allow me to rectify it,” breath puffed against his neck, Zevran’s lips barely touching skin as he spoke. “Delectable, beautiful, gorgeous, sexy, and very, very handsome.” Zevran slipped to the floor, kneeling between Ferox’s legs, “Allow me to show you just how handsome I find you.”

Teeth grazed the apple of Ferox’s throat, Zevran’s hands already in his hair, removing the braid, his body humming with the same nerves as though it truly were going to be their first time together. “You don’t have to.”

Zevran’s low, throaty and heavy with masculine arousal chuckle sent shocks through him, “Oh, I know that, _amante_.” Brown hands were in his hair, cupping his head, drawing him closer so a wet tongue could slither possessively around the earring in his lobe, “I am going to devour you, _amora_ , and enjoy every moment of it.”

Swallowing to try and work some saliva into his suddenly very dry mouth, for a frightening moment he thought he might stutter, “As you wish.”

The tongue tip that licked over his lips was slick, pressing past and between his teeth, a hand tightening on the back of his skull as mouth opened, Zevran making good on devouring him in that moment with a pleased growl. Ferox’s tongue was sucked in quickly, swirled and he had to grab the edge of the bed or risk slumping as the shudder of anticipation worked its way from his mouth down the rest of his body. Head tipping back, fingers tight to his scalp tugging to get access, which Ferox gave willingly with a surprised hiss that turned to a thrum when the assassin scraped teeth over his jugular, the sound of teeth on stubble and flesh, crackling quietly, changed by that licking tongue swirling and skipping over the roughened swath. 

The elf may have been the one on his knees, but he was easily the one with the power, Ferox handing it over without resistance, knowing that this was not one to abuse the gift. A strong arm aligned itself with his spine, the palm flat, but fingers grasping at his shoulder blade, a collarbone nipped, face rubbing over it, while the other hand stroked softly over his side. Down his chest long licking bites were dragged, zigzagging from one side to the other, the lines of ink paid special attention, as Zevran continued hungrily onward. Length held in a firm grip, mouth dragging up and down one side, thumb rolling around the tip, then rubbed against a tattooed cheek, tongue flickering at what was available, skin massaged as Ferox had to squeeze the bed frame for focus, his sack lashed and sucked, the groans vibrating their way through him. Back of throat hit and slid past, swallowing down to the base, smooth muscles stroking the crown of his cock, fingers rolling and massaging the skin of his testicles, until treating the other side of his manhood to the same the first had gained. All Ferox could do was keep his legs locked as his back tried to arch, hips unable to rise from the mattress, eyes scrunched as the onslaught continued. He felt the pulse of his blood throbbing and the moist velvet of his lover’s lips and the inside of cheek, each suck and lick and starved sound making it more and more impossible to keep from falling over the edge, until it truly was impossible and as he spilled, Zevran lapped at his crown, pulling his seed in the cool rush of air as he sucked open-mouthed startling on the heat of him.

Blearily opening his eyes with a whimper, all he saw was gold and sleek and hunger. Tangling his hands in soft gold as Zevran rose to stand, pausing long enough to kiss, to taste, to share it with him, and Ferox had to remind himself to breathe. As soon as his assassin straightened fully, Ferox was grabbing for the powerful hips, already sucking the swollen girth between his lips, and re-exploring every ridge and vein, unthinking but for wanting Zevran. To worship as words fell from those lips in that voice, those hands in his hair, the twitch of hips and muscles, the pungent taste of release in his mouth, to cover and bathe himself in the light of the blazing sun. What he had stayed for, borrowed time though it was, was for this need, this touch, this scent, this sound, this taste that had carried him beyond survival.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whoooo look at me go. This is what? The fifth chapter of somethin' I've posted in a week?

Daily, Ferox underwent some process or another, hours that Zamitie set aside strictly for working on him. Or ‘Working’ as Zevran repeatedly corrected, and when Ferox watched how the protective ring in the apostate’s Work room flared up when he crossed the embedded stone circle’s line, he had to face the fact that it was magic as solid and real as any of Morrigan’s shapeshifting, flung lightning storms or rock armour. And even the mechanics of those magics had always escaped him beyond the oversimplified equation of ‘fuel plus brain plus skill equals results’. When he had mentioned that to the woman, she had laughed dryly at him, asking him if he had ever sensed some difference between the casting that Wynne used or that which Morrigan did - without looking or thinking of who was near him at the time. 

With a start, he realized he _had_ learned to tell the difference, like the way his hair stood up or the pit of his stomach dropped. Zamitie had then said that that was something even those without mage talent could use. That it was what witch and mage hunters were trained in, so that instead of simply recognizing a known practitioner, they could sense _any_ practitioner with a connection to the Fade, and had themselves become a type of witch. It opened up a debate on what was magic, what was science, which in the end left him wondering aloud if anyone sufficiently skilled and trained towards sensitivity could manipulate forces outside the simple visual ones.

For that a long tattooed arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in like a little boy to rest his head over a beating heart as he was told that he was beginning to understand. 

Between her customers, he helped her clean up after those who had been in before, finding that she was very particular about just how clean things had to be, where things went, but as soon as he learned her system - sharp things in the middle, containers on the right, consumable resources on the left - it became easy to help without having to constantly ask. A hanging loom was moved into the salle while he practiced heaving Starfang around, the steady sound of the shuttlecock and clacking of the bar to tightly pack the threads worked into a sort of beat to follow as he practiced. Three jobs turned to four over the span of a month, days of training done at Ignacio’s, leaving Ferox at Zamitie’s for the duration, as apparently the apprentice was far too touchy to cope with another male in her personal space. After that one time, Zevran never returned more than a little bruised, and Tigress was taken there, and left for a few days at a time in the hopes that the damaged young woman could bond to something. 

The ink on his arm, shoulder, back and chest, evolved, gradually darkening shades of blue created a three-dimensional effect on his skin. Each new addition was greeted with hungry eyes and hands and mouth, until dark navy that was nearly the dark of black became a spidersilk thin tracery, edgings of white and coal-tar here and there to bring the shape into sharper relief. Whether the magic worked or not, beyond the obvious comfort it brought, Ferox had to admit that this too, was beautiful. When Zamitie had declared that the last of those sessions were finished, he had been sad. There was a connection he felt to something inside himself that was greater and encompassed more outside than he could completely comprehend. He lasted only a few days before asking if something else - perhaps not Work, but some other piece of art could be done. He didn’t know why it felt symbolic of something, just that it did, and Zamitie agreed under one condition - that he wait two months before asking again, to be sure that it was more than a craving. He didn’t tell Zevran that he had thought of having more done, wanting to keep it a surprise, something tucked and hidden away like a Saturnalia present, because if the desire had only proved to be a craving and would be easily set aside in a month or two, then it would have only gotten his lover’s hopes and excitement up needlessly.

A morning shopping trip - where his duty was designated as ‘carrier of heavy things’ while Horse walked beside them, also being another ‘carrier of heavy things’, baskets draped like saddlebags that were then filled with fruits and little jars and haunches of meat, skeins of silk, wool, cotton, bunches of fibres, stuffed and ordered neatly to be hauled - yielded a different view of Antiva City. On foot and in the early morning, shortly after shops had gained their supplies for the day, it was busy, bustling even, but not painfully crowded. Catching himself ordering a plate of some little circular pastries along with coffee for himself and Zamitie, and a bit of smoked meat for Horse, Ferox realized that he didn’t see everything as alien. Not the cucumber and mint with garlic and lemon and yogurt sauce slathered on spicy meats, not the small bowls of various sauces, nor the fact that when it was truly hot, people drank scalding coffee or tea while claiming that it helped one feel cooler... It seemed...natural. Almost. Not that any of it stopped him from becoming entranced like a child at the oddities of everyday life, watching the feather shaped sifting spoon for sugar granules to be scattered over his piping hot churros, how the bowl and spoon were delicately made, but clearly sturdy enough to withstand many customers making use of them. 

“Your eyes light up at such things, _mu’poushu_ , it reminds me of my first trips into the city as a young woman,” the soft yet slightly crunchy churro creaked as teeth bit into it, slate green eyes smooth and warm as they appraised him.

“There are so many -” searching to limit the shear numbers of everything that came to mind “ - um, everything. People, shops, paved streets, tall buildings,” he laughed. “Yes, I must be exactly like that. I’m better than the last trip, though. I think. There is still enough air and the hair on the back of my neck is not standing on end.”

“It is good then, you should enjoy yourself, once you learn to understand the place, you will find where in it you would like to fit,” she smiled, then reached to delicately sprinkle a pinch of cinnamon over his churros. “You are more at peace since the first time I saw you. This is good also. And I am speaking Antivan, and you do not even notice. This is another good thing, _mu’poushu_.”

Taken aback, he listened to her words, replayed the sentences said. The words had filled his ears and he had understood without thought, images of connotation sitting there, ready for him, just as it would if he had thought about his understanding of Ferelden. Another grin and he nodded, “Although, I don’t know about fitting in...I don’t want anything like before.” 

She shook her head, “A fit is where one finds that they are centered, _mu’poushu_. As a man working and overseeing fields, a warrior in his off-hours. A scholar and historian. It is beyond a thing where one is content with their lot. As a whore, I was content. As _ga’ni shedu’ni_ for my tribe, I was content. In training, I was content. When I became a formal _pintor de la lona viva_ , I then found my place. _My_ place. Not what I was ‘supposed to’ or ‘trained to’ or ‘expected to’ become. It is lonely for me, but it is no burden that I cannot bear. You will find _your_ place when you are ready. It is a mindset, _mu’poushu_ , not a job or identity beyond that which is in your mind.”

“I walked away from it - that was the bargain, no revenge, no retribution, no titles, no more duty and obligation.” Sipping from the colourful glass of coffee, he stared down at the tiled tabletop, “But there are times when I try to solve problems that are not mine, or put myself in the place of others for the same purpose. I know it’s not all left behind, at least not in my head. Most days, I don’t think of any of it, it’s less than before and will be less next week. The nightmares are fewer as well.” Ferox sighed, a sound that was also occurring less frequently, “Several things interest me, but I have been watching to see if my assistance or effort is needed.”

“Perhaps you should think not in terms of ‘need’ but of ‘desired’, _mu’poushu_ ,” head cocking as she nodded to herself, a small mannerism that was identical to Zevran, her hand in rearing him extremely obvious though they looked so different. “If it is help of anything he has a hand in, then of course it would be desired. Desire in this case would be the same as ‘need’. But the difference is if it is required and demanded - that is the inflection you put upon ‘need’, _mu’poushu_ , when that is not healthy.”

“Maybe it is, as I used to say to Zevran when I didn’t understand an elaborate phrase, lost in translation.” A shrug, “I don’t know how I can help with the situation he currently has, other than to offer ideas. At the moment, my presence would only be a trail of dry pine needles leading from a fire to a forest... The blaze might be fun to watch for a minute or two, until it’s remembered where camp was placed.” Looking back up at her, “But there are other things. Ser Horse would like a girlfriend and I have noticed interest in those who seem to know what he is, perhaps there is something to be done, a need to be met. If all else fails, there is a history to be written.”

She reached out to take his hand, patting it firmly, “Do not worry. You will find your context and accept it. Come, eat up as your body needs much fuel like that of any growing boy.”

The almost easy grin returned to his face, “Yes, Zama-mama. Thank you,” biting into the cinnamon sprinkled end of the churros.

....

To the plantation they returned after the initial ‘shock’ of having an apprentice, a partially broken jaw, and new ink being laid - on both of them - it was time for a break. And for the summer harvests. As well as something that was called the Festival of the Sun. Even though Ferox knew it was a fertility thing, he was not expecting his lover to be parading around with a rainbow of ribbons woven through his hair, ribbons holding his paper thin silk, slit thigh, crimson pants together, barefoot, in a startling blue vest that didn’t cover much of anything...and even more ribbons woven into a wide belt. Zevran was far from the most extravagantly dressed, or undressed, at the gathering of nearby plantation owners, but none of them shone the way he did. After all - none of them were the sun. It was deemed too rude to not attend, so they did, and Ferox looked like a giant among them - as well as very overdressed. Sadly it wasn’t overdressed in terms of quality of clothes, but in _quantity_ of clothes. But there was no way that even with a few offers from the woman who did all the household clothing repairs to ‘whip him something up’ and suggestions of attire, would he have worn what was described. Even if he had found that seeing Zevran in similar garb diminished his fear of so little in terms of garments for public purview - if the assassin looked any more like the sun given mortal form and sent to walk amongst those unfortunates who had short lifespans, well, there was not much to do but allow his restraint to slip.

 _Especially_ since the elf would slide past him when he was sitting to press his nose behind Ferox’s ear to bite the cord of blue inked tendon, whispering that he just had to ‘check if you taste as good as you look’. He wound up having to clutch at his goblet of very chilled wine, cut with fruit juice and chunks of melon and berry. Otherwise what little self-control he had would evaporate like a thimbleful of water splashed on a hot cobblestone at noon, and he would have made a spectacle of them both as he tried to gain access to every single inch of Zevran’s sun-gilded form, no matter the amount of witnesses. Then the displays of prowess with flame, exploding in a kiss of red and yellow from lips he knew well, body slicked and sleek, throwing back the light as expertly as the performers, having only taken off his vest. In the light, every play of tendon and muscle beneath tattooed and scarred flesh was reflected, and he saw not a few of the other partygoers rake the Crow with more than casual interest. After that, vest in hand, Zevran returned to steal Ferox’s goblet taking incautious gulps, a rivulet of the juice-sweet wine trickling out of the corner of mouth. A particularly bold woman went to him, seeking to lick the stream of wine free from chest, neck and face, which was allowed, and Ferox would have protested with more than a low rumble, except gold eyes were watching him, blazing hotter than the fire that had jetted from that mouth, and caressed that skin in a dance with danger.

Some new mad dance began, revelers joining in, weaving through the gardens lit with rice-paper lanterns, and Ferox had to remove his outer coat, leaving him in tunic and vest, until he was so dizzy from Zevran, the warmth, the wine, the food, that the tunic was removed as well. In the vest that touched the tops of his thighs, embroidered with emerald sigils on a verdant background, etched and rimed with silver, the fitted black silk leggings made him the moon to Zevran’s sun. Orbiting each other they danced, winding and separating only to be joined once more, the others around them nothing but inconsequential celestial bodies, not particularly real to that moment.

A man-made grotto found them, or they found it, and Ferox could not help but go to his knees, seeking to show _his_ devotion to the sun and the god of all life. 

Hands under his vest, Zevran mapped Ferox’s chest, fingertips digging in and dragging down to grip him through the silk, stroking at his ache, “I planned ahead, _amora_.” Teeth tugged gently at Ferox’s nipple, lips leaving moist kisses with each word, “There is a flat box inside my belt.”

Struggling to think, Ferox slid fingers along the inner lining, silk pressed to the backs of his fingers, even as silk seemed to cling and press to everything, and his fingertips found a slim spice box, not much larger than his thumb. Fumbling it open - because Zevran was leaning to the side, keeping the belt available, but his mouth was occupied - Ferox nearly dropped the thin wood, body heat warmed unguent in it, shining a pale white gold and sweating from having melted slightly. He was relieved at the find, having been at his wits’ end, almost willing to forgo it just to feel his lover inside him, desperate, but having been unwilling to do that to Zevran - it didn’t matter, just one of them, he didn’t care, just _needed._

There wasn’t much preparation, none could be taken, both in too great a need, but that did not mean that Zevran was ungentle. Leggings bunched down to his knees, Ferox braced against the stone bench, a strong and familiar bronze arm beside his ink free side. Clasping Zevran’s hand as he was filled, quickly but not too quickly, there was no ramming, just a strong push that he returned, Ferox groaned in relief and pleasure. Every nerve was on high alert, not caring for anything outside of the sounds that Zevran made, even though he tried to muffle his own in hopes of not drawing attention. Yet at the same time, it really didn’t matter. Long lunges took from nearly the crown all the way to base, the pull-backs slow, dragging across everything with tantalizing delicacy, and he had to press his sweaty brow to the cool and smooth marble for a moment. The frostrocked bracelets and ‘beaded’ necklace did nothing to affect this heat. 

Zevran’s breathing was harsh, the hand on his hip sliding to push the back of Ferox’s vest up high enough to lick hungrily at the inked lines. “I have wanted this all night, _amora_.”

Shifting to take him in deeper, finding the angle he craved, he could only nod with wordless, if not soundless, agreement. 

The tumble had barely ended and clothes been somewhat rearranged when the winding dancers passed nearby. Ferox should have been embarrassed, and wasn’t. Not one iota. His first months in the City had everyone thinking he was haring off with ‘Zevran’ for trysts, and he had gotten used to ignoring any perceived looks at him for being immodest. But no one did, or not any more so than if coming upon them just talking. And then they were pulled back into the dance, Zevran’s licked lips promising another instance where they were alone in the near future.

The hour-long ride back to the plantation was one of the longest hours he had ever been subjected to. They barely made it to their room before Ferox was grabbing Zevran, some form of drunk or drugged or _something_ state making it so that he couldn’t stop himself. Struggling with the ribbon belt, easily as wide as both his hands side by side, only to find that there was a set of hidden clasps that made it all fall away, Ferox was pushing at Zevran’s clothes, what little there was of them, trying to get them _off_. His assassin salvaged the little box before the sash fell away, already having it open and was working at himself to make ready, stepping out of the pants as Ferox pulled them down over lean hips and strong thighs. Swiping a finger through the cream he added it to Zevran’s busy digits, watching with anticipation as the ring swallowed around the lengths, loosening quickly but still being massaged just for the sake of the show. 

A hand in his still loose, long and wild hair, the braid having been taken out at the party at some point - likely during one of their trysts when his lover had wanted to run fingers through it - pleaded and was joined by words, begging to be sucked and licked. Groaning he could only comply with the request, taking in the heat and light of the sun into his mouth, though it stole one scene from his vision, it gave him another as he looked up, intent amber eyes glowing for him and only him, no matter who grabbed and foisted kisses upon him, or who left a hand too long where it did not belong. He had suffered the same treatment, thankfully though it was less, only the very drunk or the very bold - who were often one and the same - came that close. Released finally to remove his own still tangled clothes, Ferox had hands on him, helping, even as he could not stop tasting and licking at the mouth that gave the same. Against the wall was no place to be, or so Ferox thought, until Zevran lifted a leg, and he immediately, without thought, hooked an arm beneath that thigh, helping to balance and lift, as the broad brown back was braced against the painted wall. 

“Now, please, _amora_ ,” gasping the words, Zevran dug strong hands into his shoulders, angling and sliding against the underside of Ferox’s shaft, seeking to position and find a way to get him inside, a string of decipherable curse laced entreaties as the elf found the crown, hips wriggling to try and pull it in.

Ferox was about to say he didn’t want to hurt him, but the thrown back head, the bared throat, and he couldn’t help but plunge forward as soon as he found the entrance, tip barely inside. An animalistic and broken cry made Ferox freeze, until short trimmed nails scoured his shoulders, air tearing from that bronze column in a moan then the snarl, and an outpouring. Hard and fast, harder than he had intended, harder than he thought he had wanted, until that was precisely what he was doing, losing himself to the clasping heat and Zevran’s groans and gasps of his name, the constant litany of praise ringing in his ears, the begging for more, more, more, _more_ , until it was _all_ he could hear. His own laboured sounds were absent, they had been blotted away to nothing, only the agonized need to plunge and lunge, showing just _how much_ he needed the man in his arms, just _how much_ he was desired, and the uncontrollable demand to give and give until there was nothing left and still give more. 

He could feel the muscles in his back, hips, stomach, thighs and calves working, each bunch and curl to give Zevran what he was crying out for, hear the sound of skin on skin, watch the sweat that formed and rolled, mixing with blue tinted, clear white pearls that were, almost constantly it seemed, gushing from the swollen cock that tapped with the beat of their bodies. Even when he felt himself fall, shouting, veritably roaring, his own completion, Ferox drove on through another that somehow built and came, escalating in a way he couldn’t resist. It was agony to stop but his body could give no more, drained to empty by the somehow managed third, though he had valiantly sought to use his flagging manhood to give until there was not enough hardness to work with. Stepping only free enough to withdraw completely and give room to weakly allow Zevran’s feet to touch the floor, Ferox was grateful for the wall and its support, else he would have collapsed entirely.

His lover chuckled, knees wobbly and they helped each other - staggered more like - to their bed, “ _Jodeme_ that was good...”

“Hoe, what?”

“‘Fuck me,’ _querido_ ,” laughing as they fell to the mattress.

“Did that, done that, more in a little while, love. Need to build up a fresh supply - _hoe-day-me_ I wish I was an elf right now,” panting as he smoothed sweat-lank curls from his face. “You jus’ keep goin’ and goin’...”

Zevran chuckled once more, dragging a finger through one of the droplets and licking it clean, “Good thing you are not. Else we would still be going. At your age, one of us would be left unable to walk from overexertion.”

Pressing on a bronzed shoulder to make him lie back, muttering as he moved to lick the ridges of muscle clean, “Well we wouldn’t want that, now would we?” 

....

One of the broad brimmed shade hats on, something he would have laughed at upon arriving, something that was essential when the sun was ‘high’, Ferox watched the fields and yards empty. ‘In Ferelden’ - wondering if he could suddenly lose that phrase somewhere - the day would have been only a several hours old, here it had been ‘morning’ for some time. Ferox hadn’t recalled seeing the sun at noon, with the heat, it would have been unbearable. Meanwhile in the cooler regions, this time of day was simply ‘a little warm’. Two to three hours before noon, everyone came back to shade, to the cool stucco and mud brick buildings to rest, to sleep before another effort was put forward. Such a strange place, but even he could see that to be out in that heat, it was like being in the Frostbacks without proper gear, something bad was going to happen fairly quickly.

Watching covered trays of overripe fruit being put under netting to dry, it occurred to him that food preservation had its differences as well. In this season, much seemed to be dried, or buried in deep pits where the temperature remained constant. Many of these pits had been covered by a thick walled and sod roofed building, making an earthen cellar. These were common in Ferelden as well, but mostly to keep food from freezing in the winter rather than rotting in the heat. Again, weather. Meat preservation was certainly going to be educational. ‘In Ferelden’, slaughtering happened after it was cold enough so that the meat could chill without spoiling while being hung in trees or other high locations so that the meat would not be eaten by wild animals. Here, from the talk he had picked up, it didn’t get that cold, at least not until late in the winter, and then it was more wet and ‘disgusting’ than anything else. Smoking and drying would still be an option, just as they were in Ferelden...

Ferox realized that his thoughts were becoming much like Zevran’s had been while they were in Ferelden, constantly comparing and saying, ‘In Antiva we...’ when a thought occurred to him. How else was he to learn something without comparing it to what he already knew? He had watched the amusement on Zevran’s face when he used the two words, however, as ‘funny’ as it was, it was beginning to get annoying, and not just to himself. He didn’t want to open his mouth and have the first words fly out be those two, unnecessary attention was drawn to him, a quick label was applied, and suddenly whatever helpful thing he had to supply was, now this was reaching, but he felt that it was discounted. Frell, even _he_ was beginning not to listen when he began a conversation that way.

‘In Ferelden’, he was the center of attention, here, to his relief that was not the case. Being _the_ Warden - as if there had been only one and not Alistair beside him, later Loghain, or even others outside of the borders of Ferelden - or being the one in the heavy armour with a big sword, the one shouting, growling, snapping, snarling, the one everyone standing against them was afraid of - something even Sten could not say...and he was bigger and scarier looking without his helmet on - Ferox was used to drawing attention. Here, in Antiva, although he was able to draw attention for a time, it also passed him by as he was dismissed, something he didn’t regret. Zevran, the one who had stayed in the background previously, now drew the attention when he wished it, or not, if unnecessary. It was another situation of shifting roles and finding place he supposed. In attempting to give everything up, he knew that the ability to maintain attention had not left him, it was that now he did not choose to exercise it.

He had found humour, something which had fled for a time, mainly because it had been too hard to smile a real smile when a lip would crack with the cold, or laugh a real laugh when all that would have come was growling, or worse, something that sounded lost and miserable. At the time he was thankful streams could be counted on to be shockingly cold to snap that noise back into the depths it had crawled out of.

More importantly, what he was rediscovering was the ability to become attached to people, specifically Zevran of course, but other relationships were being forged as well, Zama-mama being the obvious one, but even littler ones with the workers in the fields or the house, and of course Tigress who made it impossible to _not_ pay attention to her as she stole things if you didn’t. Ferox told himself at first that all of these revolved around his sun and that without that pull, they would not be nearby enough for him to reach. Yet he gradually remembered that he had been able to reach out to others, not forcing himself to be nice, not having to manipulate, not being friendly because he wanted something - a checked box on a list to receive, a task to complete, a goal to achieve - it was not easy, not entirely natural or himself yet, but it was better.

The party the other week was...Ferox scratched an ear, wondering how to describe it. The food and drink were good, the people he actually talked to were interesting, everyone just wildly glad. Zevran was, of course, amazingly beautiful, something that stunned him regularly. Just when he had come to some sort of an agreement with himself and could accept the ‘everything’ of him, it was as if he blinked and saw the elf again anew. He still questioned, though not aloud, why was he chosen by this kind, graceful, and strong creature, only because he could not believe that he had been this lucky or blessed, and couldn’t believe that he was this loved and could love in return.

His birthday was one month and a week after Summer’s Day, and overall, Ferox considered this year’s successes. He did not regret walking away from everything he had known so intimately; grateful he had followed Zevran into the unknown. Fondling the ear of the hound at his side and touching the brim of the hat or a nod in greeting to the stragglers, watching to make sure all had gone to their shaded places of respite, Ferox returned to the safety of the shade and thick walls himself. If there was one thing he knew he couldn’t change and had a healthy respect for, it was the weather, whether it was ‘in Ferelden’ or ‘in Antiva’.

The next visit to the city brought with it a thrill in his stomach. He found he had missed the Zama-mama, the way she would just reach out to touch him - be it hug, a pat hand, or even once when he was being ‘difficult,’ a lazy swat on his behind, but mostly hugs and pats were to be had - the way she would look at him evenly and tell him to eat up. How she smelled of sweet and something else, would ask him questions that made him think, and she would listen to his disjointed or hesitant replies with impossible patience and interest. It was a quiet rhythm of early mornings of coffee with bread, cheese, fruit, and nuts as they all groggily woke up, Zevran sometimes sleeping in, tired from the teaching of a damaged Alienage elf, so Ferox and Zama-mama would work in the back garden, mucking the horse-stalls, caring for the animals, and any errands. Often they did not speak, there was no need, simply working on what required doing. At one point, early on, she just told him to do whatever he noticed needed doing and no more than he felt like. At that time it had felt presumptuous to just go weeding the garden, or scooping the offal from Fymataf’s stall without permission. She had laughed at him and said that if someone needed permission to clean, that nothing would ever have gotten done when Sa’id was alive. 

Every outing to morning markets they stopped at the same portable cafe with its folding tables and benches, the awning stretching over the tables adding a bit of shade, while they ate churros and drank coffee or had strange pastries that were fried. One time she convinced him to try something called _chocolate a la taza_ which had been thick, so thick he couldn’t drink it straight, but she showed him how to just dip his churros in and when the plate was done, to thin it down with a little more milk. It was a bit too sweet for something to have every outing, but time to time it was very nice. She would make a large lunch, comparable to the spread Zevran had set out that first day, but he never really was told what went into it. Usually he wound up simply eating until he could eat no more, helped her clean up, then Horse and she would go to hand out the leftovers to the hungry. Spools of thin silverite were slowly turned into links under his hands, while she worked on jewelry for her business, charms and beads and ‘posts’ and hoops, and sometimes she would pick up the palm sized chunks of chainmail he had assembled and take them to the circle, saying a soft word, making the stone flare. There she would use a brush to paint the linked metals, singing and chanting over them, returning with darkened metal coloured by magic and acids into a matte patina.

Cross legged on a large, firm pillow, back braced against the wall, his pliers worked as he repeated the five in one pattern, “Zama-mama, why don’t you like metal armour?”

“Because metal is unliving, a thing that was never alive, and it is very difficult for me to Work with,” she said, spreading out the many patches he had made, checking them over a piece of canvas she had cut to resemble his upper body measurements. “Leather, bone, plant materials - these I can Work with. Animal materials are easier for me to put spells into. A bone sword made from the femur of an honoured enemy would be just as strong as red steel once I was finished with it.”

Grabbing another handful of rings, Ferox added them one by one to his current patch, “Red steel is strong, but dragon bone or star metal is stronger.”

“And heavier. And unnecessary considering the sorts of armour fighters wear here.” Another pair of pliers appeared and she began linking the pieces together, “It would make no sense to wear or use heavier, when no one in their right mind does. Only foreigners and madmen would waste their time.”

Thinking about it for a few moments, “It’s true, I haven’t been able to wear the dragon plate since arriving. The lighter dragon leathers, certainly. When the plate was needed, it was vital for me to wear the massive armours.” Horse wiggled himself under Ferox’s knee, making of himself an odd footrest, and he paused to rub the hound’s soft ear, “I made myself the target, kept the attention of anything we were up against, on myself. Too many times to count I would have been crushed.” Seeing that her tea glass was empty he refilled it, then his own, “Starfang is too heavy, and you’re right, without the heavier armours it is virtually useless. My balance is off.”

A smile played about her stained lips, “Balance off or not, _mu’poushu_ , you still practice to keep skills, no matter if the weapon is unneeded as such.”

“I’ve considered having it reforged, maybe into a pair of swords, or a sword and long dagger - I don’t know, it really depends on the blacksmith’s skill.” Musing aloud, “Starmetal is far too precious to simply hang on a wall and left to do nothing with it. It’d be a shame to set it aside completely.”

“In the Drylands, nothing goes to waste, _mu’poushu_. Not even waste,” she sat back with a hum, setting the joined swaths aside and taking another set to join. “Brains, urine - these go to leather making. Horse and sheep shit are made into cooking fuel. Our dead serve us in life, the skin goes to armours or precious items - a bracelet, a pouch to hold tiny keepsakes, I have even made a book for Zevran out of Sa’id. Those who are worthless become practical items - boots, scabbards, tentflaps, saddles, food pouches. Useful, but not precious. Those who we honour, but not necessarily love, become that which protects us. Armour, greaves, vambraces, pauldrons. That armour I have seen you look over with such fascination came from Rinna, though I knew _mi gatito_ would not have the heart to wear her, at least not at first. Perhaps in a few years when he is ready. But to waste something that was vital to your survival and has served you well is the greatest of insults. We will find who we can to reforge your Starfang.”

Returning to forming the links, Ferox again reminded himself that, yet again, he was not ‘in Ferelden’, and avoided saying the actual words. Dried elk and moose pellets were used by the Chasind in the far southlands where trees were scarce, along with peat, which had been harvested during the long summers. Leathermaking he was familiar with, but to use people was certainly...unusual. However considering how many people were here in Antiva, Ferox was coming to the understanding that people were viewed as a resource to be used...and not just their labour or skills, but as one would use animals. However, to consider wearing _someone_ , wearing someone known and loved...he was glad he had not been presented with Zevran’s dilemma.

Every time he practiced the moves, something which was as close to graceful dexterity as he believed he could come, Ferox had struggled with what to do with something that came through that night and the explosion of the Archdemon completely unscathed. In a way, giving it up was a continuation of walking away from everything that had gone before...it was a part of him, a part of his past, who he had been. However, when he finally said it out loud, to reforge the weapon, he knew it was the solution, just as if lightning had struck. The sword would be changed, altered, and modified, an act which mirrored his own transformation - rather than discarding everything, and by extension discarding himself, it would evolve. 

More patches took shape, forming under his fingers and strong hands, as his face was frowned in concentration, conversation with himself and forming the decision. “Transformation...a rebirth through fire...is appropriate.” 

“It is one way of doing things, yes,” Zamitie agreed. “Easy enough for metal. But flesh does not tend to work that way. A different sort of rebirth, reforging, happens with people, time being the key element.”

Dropping his hand to his right thigh, “Zama-mama - about that tattoo. Well, another one.”

“Hmn? Yes, _mu’poushu_?” there was no assumption and no pressure, just an open question.

“Could I, may I please have another?”

“Of course, _mu’poushu_ ,” she reached out, to take his chin, tilting his head forward to kiss his brow. 

He must have been getting used to the heat, because he found that even though he was sweaty, he was no longer lethargic. When that was mentioned, Zamitie just smiled enigmatically and patted his teal thigh. The same principle as the first was followed, that much Ferox realized when she said his name instead of merely having him lay on the table on his side. Ferox had picked out some various motifs but wasn’t very satisfied with them and the old woman had laughed and told him she would let his body choose and not to worry about it. So he hadn’t. Once more he was left hairless on one section of body, while she did her work, and he had never realized how much hair was on the back of his thigh, let alone his behind until he saw the shaving razor continually being cleaned after only short passes. He was almost embarrassed, yet when he apologized she had snorted and said that if Zevran found it unattractive it long since would have been waxed free. She _did_ tease him though - slightly - about how he probably hadn’t needed to wear much in the way of pants to stay warm during the Ferelden winters. To that he had just snorted that that must be why Zevran was cold all the time - not enough natural protective covering.

When Zevran saw it - Ferox found himself being awoken to a tongue on his length, as he hadn’t been expecting his lover home and so had gone to bed alone, and so had been awoken with himself half down Zevran’s throat, long brown fingers massaging the freshly coloured flesh. 

Rubbing the heels of his palms in his eye-sockets almost violently, trying to groggily cope with wet pleasure and semi-deep sleep, “Whu-whaa...? Um...mmn...”

Zevran of course didn’t reply, his mouth was full, but he still chuckled, the vibrations sending a shudder through Ferox’s body. He was fairly certain he wasn’t going to be getting more sleep, and he would snarl or snap at anyone else, but then again, anyone else wouldn’t be licking him like _that_. Groaning, Ferox slung a forearm over his eyes, a hand cupping Zevran’s head, and spread his legs, letting his lover have whatever he wanted. Thick cream was massaged into his skin, along his cock which his assassin impaled himself on slowly, hands carefully braced while facing away from Ferox, until he could nearly lay back against Ferox’s chest. Belatedly a pillow was snagged which Ferox yanked under his head, so he could watch the shadows over Zevran’s shoulder and grasp the thick length, rocking his hips up that were barely seen in the dark. 

Mumbling into a perfect ear, licking it, “Then you approve?”

The sound Zevran made could have been a moan or a chuckle, and was likely both, “You are marvellous, _amora_.”

Noting that it was still dark and he couldn’t see much of anything but a faint glimmer from downstairs and dark shadows upon deeper ones, “How’d you know?”

“There is enough,” a roll of hips made them both catch their breath for a moment, “light for me to see...and...leg was out...” Zevran’s pace picked up and Ferox couldn’t think even as the words were groaned, “hot outside...leg out...from under...sheet - _amora_!”

In his arms Zevran tensed and wetness filled Ferox’s hand as it worked at his lover’s erection. Nuzzling at what he could, Ferox enjoyed his arms being full, even more than the tightness flexing and working around his manhood, though all of it made things difficult to order. It was disjointed, their lovemaking, but it was all he ever wanted, to feel that warmth that never abated. Groaning as his resolve to hold back was not in place, his orgasm overtook him quickly. Groggily he had told himself to stay awake but they both fell asleep after.

....

Ferox had grown accustomed to Zamitie’s townhouse, considering it ‘home’, just as much ‘home’ as the plantation. In some ways, it was more home, as the three of them contributed to its upkeep, splitting and sharing chores, and Ferox had even found himself dealing a little bit with the _pintore’s_ customers. Of which there were _many_ in the evenings after the sun had gone down, and the real ‘life’ of the city began. Mostly it was just answering a few questions, if Zama-mama would have time for a specific size of artwork, or only piercings, even keeping the receiving area cleared, the teapot filled, and glasses cleaned. Perhaps some would find it odd to find a noble, a Warden, and ‘Hero’ of the Blight basically busing tables and rearranging the piles of artbooks, accepting and storing payments in such a humble fashion. But it was fulfilling in a different way. It was simple. He would never forget the look on Zevran’s face though when he complimented a young girl who might have been about fifteen for having lasted through an hour long session of tapping, for how well she had held up and how pretty the piece on her forearm was. Ferox had thought that his elven lover would haul him off right then and there to show his pleasure with him. Ferox had only found himself offering it because he had heard the girl talking with her mother about how much she wanted a piece of artwork, but that she was also afraid it would hurt horribly as it was her first piece, and a birthing day present. 

Of course Ferox still preferred the plantation, but it had so many people to deal with constantly, and every time he had tried to do something like remove his plates from the meal table, he had been looked at oddly. In Highever that had never been an issue, for most of his life servants had done such tasks, but during the Blight new habits had been formed. At the Vigil most everyone ate in the longhall beside the kitchen whenever hungry, no large meals with ceremony, and all at the least took their platters to large tubs to set them after scraping off remainders for compost and animal feed. He supposed what he liked about being at Zamitie’s townhouse, other than the company, was that even though people came to visit, they left as soon as their business was concluded. It was people without having to deal with them, while still interacting, leaving a form of permanent impact on their lives that was beneficial to them in some way.

So he had forgotten all about the fact that Zevran said he had his own apartment - somehow thinking that perhaps he had meant his room and the salle at the townhouse. Why would anyone want to live elsewhere when such comforts and one he could help, were on hand? But there had been, at one point, two who weren’t comfortable or welcome, that slipped his mind, even though he stopped and admired the armours on their stands, particularly the one made of tattooed leather, worked delicately into a sturdy chestpiece. Taking the steps in the apartment building that was painted the deep red of clay in the center of one of the tannery districts, Ferox wondered what precisely was in store for this new find. The stairwell was painted with a mural that made the narrow area seem more open, a scene from the bay, until they came to the top floor, where there was a turquoise door. He had chuckled at that, noting that the paint was fairly fresh, a symbol of ‘home’ to be shared.

“And this is our apartment,” Zevran nudged the door open so Horse could dart through. “I requested that Ignacio send someone to make sure it was clean. Sadly all the plants on the roof are likely dead, as Taliesin probably did not think to give them away before leaving for such a long time. Fool. But, ah, it is what it is. I am merely happy that he took Tigress to Zama rather than let her be cooped up and die at worst, or run loose at best.”

Offering, “Plants are easily replaced, if necessary. But probably unwise to do given our current choices...unless you are unhappy or want a change?” 

Zevran had put Ferox to stand in one place while he went to go light the lamps and tug on ropes that suddenly shed light from shuttered and high placed windows. “No, I am merely more accustomed to saying ‘oh this requires fresh basil-mint-coriander’ or some other such ingredient and simply taking a few stairs to grab it, _amora_. Also, the waste of the fig trees is just...augh. Sacrilegious.” His lover hopped onto a countertop, legs kicking and waved a hand, “Explore, _querido_. I want to see what you see, to look through those beautiful brown eyes of yours.”

Ferox had mostly been too busy watching Zevran move around to take note, but when he did, he had to sit down. More murals were on the walls in the large open loft, cleverly painted shelves blended in with the murals to become part of the artwork, and held weapons and books and strange mechanical devices mixed with pottery and carved pieces. The carvings he knew came from Zevran’s nimble hands, but the graceful vase that Ferox picked up had an elaborate ‘T’ stamped on the bottom, while the metal contraptions bore an ‘R’ etched in them. Evidence of the two other Crows was everywhere, but not overpowering. It worked together, showing how the trio had managed for years to be part of each other’s lives. He wasn’t overly surprised at the books, those seemed to mostly be Zevran’s, a great many of them written by hand.

Opening one of the calligraphy books, “Who did the painting?”

“We all did,” came the easy answer and the creak of a body hitting one of the sofas, and Ferox glanced to see Zevran’s chin propped up on an armrest, arms dangling over the edge, gold eyes tracking him and taking him in.

“All of this?” glancing at the floor to ceiling, and painted ceiling as well, palm still smoothing over the cloth paper pages of the book in his hand. 

“One project at a time. First we saved up to move from the Guild appointed apartments, then we bought this place. After that we decided to put in shelves, upgrade our keepbox and stove,” waving a hand at the kitchen area. “After that, the tub, then we built racks for planters upstairs, bought the potter’s wheel Taliesin had been salivating over for years but never brought himself to buy. On the roof, there is a kiln and jeweler's bench up there as well for Rinna that he and I built for her. My architect board is up there as well - I built that. But one time when I came back from a job, I found that writing desk over there,” pointing to a deceptively simple and slightly canted table with drawers and a very comfortable looking chair, “to find that. We may not have earned much coin from our contracts, but we always managed to set enough aside to accumulate, and often would sell weapons and armour that were worth more than whatever we were currently using for more coin. Even when that meant not having the best weapons or armour. Better to work with less when you can, so that you can save enough to have things of your own. That is what smart Crows learn very early on, even if it is not taught - or encouraged - by the Guild.” His lover chuckled, “Plus Rinna always had very sticky fingers while on jobs - usually came away with at least several baubles that would sell well. Our methods varied, I usually did not waste time with bringing in weapons, just used what was on hand in conjunction with poison. Taliesin was the one who needed weapons the most as his work required it - posing as a bodyguard or some such. Rinna relied upon a few small daggers or darts. So we kept such costs as low as we could to set away for actual freedoms, no matter how small.”

Thinking about it, Ferox realized that that was why Zevran’s slaves had so much ‘freedom’ themselves. The elf knew well the value of having a bit of coin to stow and save, to use for oneself or others as was chosen. Mulling over the healthy nest egg that had been saved up, Ferox grunted knowing that almost none of it had been spent since their arrival in Antiva. He had been so careful with their coin, and as the company disbursed he gave each one a share...except for Alistair and Loghain as they were already taken care of. Sten, who didn’t want anything other than the armour he wore and his own sword, still needed fare for his berth to return home. Each one was better than he had found them, well dressed, well armed, with money in their pockets, even Morrigan who was gone before anyone knew, had a share slipped into her bag thanks to quick brown fingers. What they probably hadn’t expected, and he hadn’t discussed, not that any of it _was_ discussed, was that Horse had also received a share - one Ferox intended to use to obtain the hound a companion. So he could have pups of his own. One of them should have children, and it obviously wasn’t going to be himself. 

As for his own share, he had no idea other than the reforging of Starfang. His armour was new and in excellent condition thanks to Master Wade, and there was the heavier set that could be sold, if necessary. There wasn’t a desire to own or have anything beyond what was already there. When he thought he needed something, it would usually be on hand or appear from thin air, like the clothes for the party which had once belonged to Sa’id, or his daily wear that he realized had belonged to Taliesin and been altered to fit him. Everything seemed to be saved for later, stored in some magic room or chest, retrieved when it was needed. When he had tried to pay for some little item, when they first arrived, the ‘what are you doing?’ look he received made him feel twelve years old. 

Wandering around the apartment, which was mostly just very open but for the sleeping and sitting area, a few odd pieces of furniture were sitting about. Taking his book to the hanging chair suspended between two A-frames, with its short attached footrest, he made himself comfortable. 

Thumbing through it, “How hard would it be, do you think, to find Horse a selection of bitches to choose from?”

“To import them...? Or to go and visit and see if we could find one?” Zevran had hopped up, approaching him to give the swinging chair a gentle push.

“It would be better if Horse picked out who he wants to bring home. He may have had other casual liaisons in the kennels, he’s not one to lick and talk...so no, not studding - a four-legged family of his own.” Tipping his head back so that he could look up at his lover who nuzzled at his temple, “I have told him that I am not interested in putting up with someone who belongs to an Imprinted female. After the Blight, however, it wouldn’t surprise me if there were many who were unattached or ones who lost their companion...just like others in the camp at Ostagar. I was thinking that places where refugees fled to might have the best chance of finding what he wants - without having to return to Ferelden.”

Zevran hummed, thinking aloud, “The Free Marches would be the most logical place for many to wind up, _querido._ A trip to a few of the port cities could easily be managed. I will just have to see if any work can be had at them, or if Ignacio has some other needs that can be met at a few of them.”

“Horse has his share of funds from the journey, which I think could provide for two or three females, if he’s thinking of setting up a dynasty. However, I said that he better find a young male to adopt and train, as he’s not getting any younger, but he gave me a dirty look.” 

There was a snicker, “There is a saying - the female of the species is more deadly than the male, _querido._ It is true for any breed - handing the care or sharing it out of such a wide selection of females and the resulting offspring to a possible male challenger, younger or not, would not go over well. I think that the females would be even more offended and likely use them for a tasty snack.”

“It’s up to him, if he finds what, or rather who he wants, from what’s available. I don’t mind a lost mabari farm, but I would rather he didn’t bring home just anyone. He has received many compliments and no - “ sardonically, “not just from street vendors. Some seem to know what he’s capable of. If he’s prolific, his pups could be trained and find people of their own, to protect others.” As if it just occurred to him, “Zevran, why do you have a swing indoors?”

A laugh and the leather rectangular seat was pat, “Up and I will show you.”

Ferox clambered free to have Zevran slip back into place, rocking the swing back and bracing spread legs on the frames, where what Ferox had taken as some sort of...drink holders or something turned out to be placed for legs. Blinking rapidly at the smirking elf, he felt a flush rising up, feeling incredibly stupid. Then he glanced down at the position of the attached ‘footstool’ realizing that the way it was slanted would be comfortable to kneel or sit on, or brace against. The elf snickered and twisted, until he was slightly upside-down, legs curling over the back, hands reaching out to snag Ferox’s hips and pull him closer, demonstrating without words, but with a hot breath over his groin, and Ferox had to catch the sturdy silk sheathed ropes for balance. Another twist and Zevran’s back was to him, legs threaded between the ropes, buttocks presented and lifted neatly, hands and chest braced comfortably on the back of the seat and the ropes.

“I do not think this has ever been used for a reading chair before,” laughter as he slid out of the swing quickly. Bending down he showed that there was a mechanism to mount...something...on the underside of the ‘footrest’. “But it has been used solo many times.”

Unsure if he would like the answer, or would just be taken aback, “And...how...would one use it...’solo’?”

A wink and Zevran did a forward flip and jogged up the platform to the area that held the bed, beckoning, “There is a chest over here with plenty of things. However, some should just be sold off as we are unlikely to ever need or desire to use them.”

Following cautiously he pulled up an _actual_ footstool as had the assassin as he unlocked a very large chest. One he had taken for holding clothes or armour or something else.

Zevran cleared his throat, “ _Querido_ , I wish to remind you that the items utilized in here were used willingly and without intent to damage or harm. Some items might be uncomfortable for you to see, others simply perplexing. Know that I do not expect to use these on you, or for you to use them upon me.” A hand was laid on his thigh, squeezing reassuringly, “A whorehouse boy, a fisherman’s daughter and a rather...adventurous farm boy who wished to be as ‘aristocratic’ as possible resulted in some very...deviant...tastes and experiences by the estimation of some, but not abnormal by the standards we were used to.”

Well, it was a large enough box to hold a body, but after this many years, whomever was in it was long dead, and in this heat, mummified. However that was almost the only thing that seemed to jump into Ferox’s mind. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, not really...although I have heard of some odd proclivities...you have to remember I essentially grew up on a farm and well, sheep can be popular with some.” Grinning, “However, I would point out that if you kept it in there, it’s long gone.”

His lover cocked his head, “Ferox, I am about the most open minded person you will ever meet - my only rule about sex is that it is best when it is done well. After that, anything is possible. Animals tend to not be very good at sex with humanoids, and outside of a job, I have no tastes for them. Truly it always has appeared to be either the very low-income or very, very, _very_ high-income who have a desire for something that does not walk upon two legs.”

“Zevran, I have no experience with animals other than caring for them. Nor was I raised in a box unable to hear of things which I thought might be odd...Oghren’s ‘bedtime stories’ notwithstanding.”

There was a laugh, “No, no. I would not think that you did, I am merely saying that such a thing does not shock me. But what is in here, some might bring unpleasant memories. Many forms of ah...devices...for pleasure, or that which cross the line, or blur it. The manacles will definitely be rid of quickly. As with the whips and things, but unless Taliesin had some company over before leaving for Ferelden, those items should be in the bottom of the box. With the ah...spreader bar, which, honestly...? I would not mind keeping.” Giving a rambling list, “There is also a great deal of soft silk rope, lambswool padded restraints - no locks so no worries there, a hood - that will be going I am guessing, along with the gags... I was never fond of those - too hard to get a cock in the mouth... But there is much more than that in here. A very large selection of various media items to be inserted in orifices and such that would put that Sanga in paroxysms of envy. Nothing but the best. In fact, there is a perfect replica of my manhood in there.” Squinting, “Well, not quite perfect, it was when I was younger and did not have the ring in the crown yet. Otherwise? Perfect replica. Very high polish stone, has managed to withstand being dropped a good many times...too much lubricant and pop!” The last was punctuated with a quick sliding clap of hands. “Goes flying. Once got popped in the face by it - not the most pleasant of projectiles - I broke my nose. Could take someone’s eye out with that thing.” Snapping his fingers, “Oh! And I forgot the collars with the leashes... And there is some very pretty slave jewelry Rinna made, but far too delicate for a man.”

Putting his face in his hands for a moment, Ferox considered rubbing an eye socket in disbelief, “Zevran, you have said that there is, was, choice and I trust you in this, as in all things. If you would like to show me, then do. If you would rather have time to root through your memory box first, I don’t mind.” 

“It is not that, I just wished to warn you so that you would not be...” A word was searched for, all clearly coming up wanting, but one settled upon and stated delicately, “Discomforted.”

Turning his head, Ferox looked at him remembering, “Zevran, you have warned and thoughtfully given examples and been clear in your stated intentions. I will not rip off your arm.” 

The lid was lifted, revealing neat straps to hold the tools to the lid, trays with similar items, in a great variety of shapes and sizes and materials were open for display. “Peruse and ask questions as you will, _querido._ ”

“Kinda hard to ask questions when I don’t even know what I’m looking at, other than perhaps some small clubs,” picking up a strange conical leaf that narrowed at the stem then had an oblong base. 

Index and thumb made a tight circle and went over the tip of the leaf, stretching open then locking tight, stopped by the almost rectangular end. “This is for anal enjoyment, but this,” a brief up and down on the stem, “prevents it from ah...slipping in and becoming stuck. They can be useful to wear when going on jobs, as targets or those you have to be around to get to targets, do not always take time to assist in readying you. But they also can be worn during intercourse if a third party wishes to be simulated but is not present. Or simply to wear because it feels pleasant.”

Making a face as he laughed, “Just...wearing it? Doing what? Cleaning house?”

“Actually, yes. It does make for good self-foreplay, and encourages one to finish cleaning house a great deal more quickly...”

“Or to enjoy waxing the floors.”

Zevran grinned, “ _Exactly, amora_ , just so! When we first were given our own space out from the direct eyes of the barracks’ instructors, we let our apartment get positively _filthy_. Filthy, it was disgusting. We did not have to clean - there was no one to tell us to, so we did not. Quite rebellious of us considering how we had to spend an hour or three daily, atop training, instruction, classes and any menial jobs we were ordered to attend to when living in the shared barracks conditions. It went that way for oh, perhaps seven months before Taliesin became so put out that he said he would jump from the roof if we did not help him clean. Not that Rinna or I wished to - we just wished to ignore all common sense. Because it was our choice to. Let us just say that incentive was discovered and Sundays were usually interesting as we devoted it to be ‘cleaning day’.”

“So pleasure and incentive, simulating another’s presence as well. If there were three of you, why would you need anything else? Isn’t that plenty?” 

“Because, well...” Head tilting side to side, “When I am inside you, as an example, I have nothing inside me. And that feels good to be filled as well as fill. Ah...think of how it would be if you could have me both ways at the same time. Or - ah, I know, like with Morrigan. You liked being inside, and having me inside, yes? It enables _everyone_ to have it both ways.”

“True. That was very nice. And that’s what most of this tray is then, just different shapes and materials? It would seem that stone would be less comfortable or cold.” 

A shake of the blond head, “That is part of the good. Also it can be put in hot water to warm it up. The same holds true for metal. Wood does not tend to hold up well. A dense stone is best - durability and weight, and usually affordable. There are some artists who specialize in this sort of work. Entire businesses devoted to things to insert.” One of the ones that was more clearly phallic, but oddly nubbed was tapped, “Anal or vaginal, but honestly, it is whatever mood strikes.” The first layer was two trays, each picked up and set aside. “These are different,” thin and flexible metal pieces were in a small tray cushioned in velvet. “The inside of the penis can yield a great deal of pleasure if treated gently.” Pointing to other things, “These can be used to hold an orifice open to ah...inspect the insides. Rinna had a bit of a surgical set of tastes... ‘Open wide so I can make sure you are clean’ and such. Or my ‘I am such a naughty boy, punish me.’ Or Taliesin’s desire for a full role reversal so that he was the second class citizen ordered about like a Ferelden would an elven worker - ‘This floor is not clean enough dumb shem, clean it better’. Much is about role-play and dominance versus submission. But that is basically all there is in here at its core - ways of exploring one’s own or another’s body and role-play.”

Other things to ask, but it was the last that held his attention, “And we do not play...or if there is, it is only a little or more serious.”

“Different strokes for different folks, _querido_ ,” shrugging. “I am not dissatisfied, as long as I am with you.”

“I was noting the difference only, not displeasure or dissatisfaction. You yourself have said that sex should be fun and while enjoyment is certainly had, I did not consider...play.”

“What are adults but children that have grown smarter and larger?” head cocking to the side. “Life is boring without laughter, and play is one way of having it. Humour is another.” A grin flashed across the handsome bronze features, “And you and I have played hide and seek in gardens...”

“I suppose we did that and taunted Wynne...”

He snickered, “It is good that nothing fazes Zama. And that her bedroom was long since soundproofed.” Zevran scooted his seat closer to Ferox, leaning in to draw a deep breath and kiss the corner of his jaw, “So this then makes me wonder if there have been any thoughts in your mind of anything, specific or non, about anything in particular, _amora_.”

Well that was a simple question to answer, at least in part, “That cloak and nothing else on you but a smile.”

“That is all?” another kiss, soft and lingering, the words mumbled. “You have only but to ask, or even just lay it out and I will know. But there is nothing else? Truly?”

Ferox considered, “It is true, and expected, that what removes choice...or appears to...would be...troublesome.” Taking a breath, he separated from the things which gave him pause and looped an arm around Zevran’s waist. Squeezing, he rumbled, “As to the rest, I have no idea what is good, but I am willing to sample and take suggestions... Your ‘reading’ swing is very interesting, however.” 

Zevran dug in the box pulling out an odd rod with a mounting on either side and a leather strap, “This attaches to the kneeling board of the swing.” An very long box was withdrawn, and was opened to reveal the replica, which looking at it in the highgloss and smoothed polish of the stone, Ferox had to admit - it was a _very_ good copy of Zevran’s manhood. It was then strapped and locked onto one side of the staff. “Automatic threesome, no extra party needed. Ingenious, no?” It was set back in the box after being taken apart. “But that is there if at any point you might be curious.”

He did have to admire the organization, really. It wasn’t some box of odds and ends tossed about and uncared for. There was purpose and everything clearly was cared for and had its place. Ferox realized that he was considering neatness after having a locked box of Saturnalia pranks and gifts opened. Some were obvious as to which category they fit into - restraints were pranks, fillers possible gifts depending on the intent, others he was more hesitant of. However, there was trust and care here and intentions not to harm. Zevran had reminded him of the evening with Morrigan, which, while being strange, different, was not unpleasant at all. 

Zevran reached out to caress his cheek gently, “I am yours, _amora_. Whatever we do or do not do is your choice, there has never been anything to fear between us, _querido,_ nor will there ever be, yes?”

“As I am yours,” eyelids blinked closed with the touch. “I’m not afraid because you are with me,” catching the reassuring hand to kiss the palm. “I should like to see your ruined rooftop garden.” 

“ _Our_ ruined rooftop garden,” smiling and darting in for a tight hug before he stood.

“Oh no,” getting to his feet as well, “do not blame your running off to Ferelden on me! Restored, it may be ours, but not a moment before.”

Zevran laughed almost skipping to the spiral hanging staircase, “Well then, let us see what you will have to work with.”

....

Everything settled into place, context was built. Ferox noticed time passing and yet didn’t. Time was a wide river, flowing in its deceptively constant drift, the most exciting times being not of upheaval or fresh discovery, but over little things like the fact that Zevran’s daughter, who apparently didn’t know she was his progeny, having ‘run away’ from clan life, rebelling and signing up to become a Free Blade. When that happened, Ferox finally found out one of the worst kept, and thus best kept, secrets of Antiva. No standing or government run military existed in Antiva, the common knowledge that there was no ‘military’ to speak of, just the Crows, and of course the ‘unsavory’ swords for hire, pirates and merchants... Who all apparently had more than a working relationship or gentleman’s agreement but actual _contracts_ that forced them to patrol and protect Antiva’s sovereignty. All those who wished to have a base of operations in Antiva had to spend three months of every year patrolling in one fashion or another, and those who were smaller operations had their taxes waived. It was ingenious in that it worked at all. When Zevran pointed out that it also made it hard for any general to ever know just how many able-bodied fighters could be summoned up at will, it made a sudden sense. If the threat of being killed or family or friends being killed wasn’t enough to stop some fool from invading, the bands of Free Blades, merchant and pirate fueled navy, and the roving clans of Dalish and _Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ would be more than enough to put a serious crimp in someone’s plans. All of that combined with the difficult terrain and no one in any marginal frame of ‘right mind’ would risk it. 

Zamitie had added that the maps of the Drylands and Weyrs were purposefully misleading - underground rivers and springs did exist, with some breaking above ground to form _far more_ than just a few oases, but few outside of the horseclans and Dalish knew that. Trade caravans stuck to known routes, usually with guides from the Free Blades that were almost always clansmen. Another clever way of keeping Antiva protected and the insular folk away from the coasts by ensuring that knowledge of the interior wasn’t known. It also explained why the Free Blades had a high rate of cavalry units who were from the desert people.

Ferox had been anxious, uncertain of what the young woman would be like but she had been...startlingly like Zamitie and Zevran both, clearly cut from the same cloth, made from the same mould. But she was also very quiet, her oddly gold tinted green eyes skipping and studying everything around her, the traditional headwrap on her head was usually left with one side tucked over her nose and mouth, displaying just those eyes and sharply angled red brows. Tall and broad-shouldered like her grandmother, he had almost taken the girl for a man when she found her way to Zamitie’s townhouse. 

Zevran was sitting in the eating area, writing some report on his apprentice’s progress and his assessment of her mental health, asking his opinion from time to time when the tall form had entered through the closed shop. Ferox was rearranging the artbooks and just doing general tidying, calling out his replies to his lover. The last customer hadn’t yet left, so the door had been left unlocked, and in entered a form that shouted ‘warrior’ and Ferox tensed without being obvious about it. He always did, making fast assessments of threat, even though here in Antiva City often it was the smaller ones who were the greatest threat. 

A bow, hands went to forehead, index and middle fingers touching the center of brow, heavily accented and very throaty voice, like a roughened tenor or deep contralto spoke Antivan slowly, “Honoured person, I am a seeker, may I seek water here?”

Zevran dashing past him at the sound of that voice, “Ani?!” Already his arms were around the bowed and quickly straightening body, “Ani, what is this? Anicada, what are you doing here?”

“Honoured one, I am seeking,” it was a formal answer as she stood tall, not embracing the Crow.

“Yes, yes, you are seeking, you have found the oasis, and may share its waters, let me look at you,” holding her at arms-length quickly, head tipped back. “Flaming girl - standing on ceremony like a stranger. Faugh!” Zevran waved a hand, “ _Querido_ , please put on a fresh pot, this _mushu_ is taking this old man to task for ignoring traditions and will not relax until something is offered.”

Face still masked and having yet to move from before the door when Ferox returned, a hot pot of steeping tea in hand and several fresh glasses which he set out. Finally at that, the taut like a bowstring body relaxed, removed soft knee wrapping boots and knelt at the table, only freeing the end of her headwrap from over nose and mouth until a glass was poured for her and motioned to drink. As soon as they all took a few sips, off came the headdress, revealing flame bright red hair that made Leliana’s look dull and lifeless, held in a braid nearly as thick as Ferox’s wrist, a tattooed chin and scrollwork over cheekbones that were her father’s down to the very colour. 

She bowed low in her seated position once revealed, “I am sorry for having come unannounced, but this was my first afternoon off from the barracks. Deepest apologies rendered to my fathers.”

Beside him Zevran went tense, and Ferox didn’t understand but still lay a hand on the thigh beside his. “Ani, you are not three and this is not the first meeting between us.”

“As I am not three and I am no longer beholden to my birthing mother and chief, I may freely voice my observations,” it was snapped back as quickly, though softly and without rancor. “And your manner banishes like bad wind against good any doubts to be had.” Gaze sliding over to Ferox, “This one is yours, then he is also my father.” A fast smile transformed her face from serious to mischievous, “Hopefully you will not be as recalcitrant as my father, and will be allies with me in reminding him that children do as they will when they are grown.”

Laughing, “I like her. If only a third of his stories are true, then he should remember how wild he was at your age _very_ well.”

“Auck, my lover _and_ my child unify against me? Horse - Horse my friend, tell me that at least you do not abandon me?” Zevran looked to the faithful hound who was sniffing curiously at Anicada, who then gave the young woman’s cheek a big lick and wagged his whole rump. “Auck! You too?!”

Zamitie accepted payment and shooed her client out, saying, “ _Gatito_ , were you not told many times that there was only so long you could respect your sister’s wishes? Blood tells, and she is of yours and has always had her own mind.”

Although he had remembered Zevran’s tale of a child close to his own age, it did not occur to Ferox that she may have been nearby. From the story alone, he would have guessed that the girl was with her mother’s people, wherever that was. However, from her statement that she was no longer subject to her mother or her chief, it could be supposed that she had broke with them fully, much like he had with his own past and obligations to brother and crown. If this was true, he liked her very much, it wasn’t an easy decision to make or to carry out.

The smile and humour that were becoming easier by the day were turned back to Anicada, “I am Ferox. If we are to be allies and work together to keep this old man in line, it is a pleasure to meet you.” 

And so Ferox’s circle of family and context widened and it wasn’t a burden.


	8. Chapter 8

Things settled once more after the excitement of meeting his ‘daughter’, who would drop in time to time, always unannounced, but never unwelcome, once stopping by the plantation while on a patrol route with her group. Bandits were occasionally a problem, and most farms and the extensive plantations had few fighters, and even fewer weapons. Other than scythes of course, but slaves using farm equipment to fight was...frowned upon. Being the fastest, she had come a’calling looking for some assistance of a lifesaving variety for some of her patrol, most of whom were badly injured and had been dealing with a group of brigands that were making themselves nuisances. At the news, Ferox and Zevran were both out the door with some of the hardiest of the overseers, riding hard with Anicada leading them to her wounded unit. After that, the patrols increased, and his lover was adamant that those from her unit when on patrol should feel free to stop over for a night of rest even if they were not in residence.

All the extra materials from the Archdemon, ‘Andraste’, and Flemeth were put to use finally. Dragonwing was paired with the relatively featherlight chainmail vest he and Zamitie had put together, the armour blooming under the mage’s tattooed fingers into a comfortable and multi-layered set of armour that could be worn in several different ways. StarFang was skillfully reforged into two much lighter, but no less effective, plain, single-handed swords, one kept at hand at all times. Sometimes he would find himself joining Anicada on the shorter patrol routes, Zevran regularly in tow, and though a fight was not always had, it still felt familiar and like he was _doing_ something. Books on farming were found, laboriously translated, and then when he was told of just _how_ books were mass produced in Antiva, Ferox had gone to that with gusto when not in the fields or smaller gardens. Sample books were sent to his brother, detailed drawings added by Zevran’s strong hands to the pages, suggestions of how to increase crop productivity and observations learned from having knowledge of both types of farming. 

It was a small thing, but that too, was doing something. 

When interest soared, or as much as it could soar considering Ferelden’s very slow march towards health would allow, for the luxuries of farming pamphlets and manuals, Ferox put the clay printing tablets to work. A neat little sum, not large by Antivan standards, but wealth considering the effort and suppressed currency of Ferelden, trickled in. Interest was then expanded, local plantation owners, merchantmen and a few others had wondered aloud about the ‘barbarian’ that had taken up with a ‘refined elven gentleman of means’, and while no details that he was a Warden or who he was beyond ‘Ferox from Ferelden who knows animals, farming and fighting’ were ever given, that curiosity and various questions caused him to take up other forms of writing. Very little was in any of the libraries he went to about Ferelden, a few legends here and there, things from the Orlesian occupation, a few accounts from refugees of the Blight - but that was all. 

So he had taken out the journals he kept during their Journey Across Ferelden, Ferox began to fill in the days as the brief notes jogged his memory. Even one as short as ‘Warning traps. Had _lamb_ and peas,’ reminded him of that awful day he snapped so cold, when everyone had been hurt, stupid signs on only one side of the trail warning of the hidden wolf traps, had their uses. Or the humorous, ‘visited Flemeth again today. Z went for a ride,’ and the memory of boots touching his back briefly, and his lover flying into the literal face of danger, only to wrangle and ride the serpentine neck to the ground the same way a rambunctious calf would be, set him to grinning. When he ran across an entry he didn’t remember, it made for conversation and ‘remember whens’. That book, too, brought in a tidy sum, much tidier, to a point Ferox considered just printing the farming manuals and information and sending those necessary and useful things to any who would want them in Ferelden, pro bono. The real feather in the cap, he felt, was that Brother Genetivi’s  History of the Fifth Blight was released several months later and contained no insight from the companions themselves, only their effect on the politics and situation at the time. It made for a nice ‘companion’ volume, one that would have been incomplete without the actual events in A Warden’s View from a Tower. 

Some Chantry folks had been argumentative about the information, until very quietly Zevran and he went to the Antivan Warden compound. It was a place he hadn’t particularly wished to visit, but did so anyway, and the Warden Commanders of Antiva _and_ Ferelden had written letters to silence such complaints. And when meeting the Antivan Warden Commander, she had respected his general desire for privacy, only thanking him for having quieted the song before saying she would ‘personally rip them to shreds any who ignore the truth’. From what he had seen - he could believe it, as she had a penchant for having irritating people stuffed and mounted in macabre poses around her living quarters. 

Zevran had joked that it probably helped that she was second in line to be Guildmaster as well if anyone stepped out of line, and had already made good on those promises a couple times as is.

When Tigress died, Ferox wasn’t there, but it had been expected. It was during one of those times when the cat was with the still as of yet unmet apprentice, practicing with Zevran. The girl was, by all reports, horrendously broken up about it. Which was coped with by attacking the pit-fights with a wild furor and accidentally killing one of her opponents. However, as he understood it, the man had it coming. Still, to have been ripped limb from limb - literally - by a slight elven girl must have been a rather unpleasant way to go. Not that it affected him, not much, as on the rare occasion he felt the need to smash something with his fists and entered the arena, she was never in evidence. Likely kept separate for their mutual health. But there were also tears on Zevran’s part, the little feline body brought to Zama-mama to do as she willed, for Tigress had been well-loved.

Occasionally jobs, semi-merchant and entirely espionage related, took them down the coasts to Free March cities. On those trips, Horse would nose around and had met one or two female mabari of some interest, but none that really held it, not until the refugees from Amaranthine began pouring in. There were fearful whispers of a new Blight, but he heard no song, and Zamitie agreed - there was no Archdemon to direct the darkspawn. Something else was stirring them up, which was causing Ferelden a fresh set of trouble on the northern coasts. There was a faint twinge when Fergus sent a letter, saying that things were bad, but he refused to go back to that. Not unless Fergus said it was so bad and that there was nothing short of what an army could do to save them. Instead he found something else that might help - he asked Ignacio if there was some way to send relief. The answer had been simple, Cesar was going back anyway to fully re-establish a cell, a few of which were older Crow-Wardens nearing their time, but still useful and a force to be reckoned with. The old wily Crow had suggested he also speak with Maestra Alba, who was the Warden Commander, and see if she might drum up a few who would be willing to go as well, yielding a virtual army of Wardens to lend - twenty in all. Then the holds of the two ships were filled with seed stock and emergency supplies, all without Ferox having to do anything other than ask. 

_That_ had been a novelty. No tit for tat, no doors to kick down, no item to be retrieved... Just going and politely asking if something were possible... And it was done.

Still there was the issue of slavery. Chiefly of Ferelden refugees. While Antiva had no issue with slavery, nor Rivain, and certainly not Tevinter, what Antiva took exception to was someone selling ‘bad quality’ to them. And some fool had done just that - desperate coastal Fereldens had been scooped up and promised safe transport to the Free Marches or Antiva in exchange for whatever valuables they carried, never realizing that they too, were considered ‘products of value’. At least to those of the most unscrupulous morals. It was a practice mostly ignored by the Guild, until someone had sold a large batch of Fereldens, who then promptly died due to their poor care en-route. 

The Guild was hired to ‘fix’ that problem and exact restitution for the loss of life, or as the buyer had called them ‘goods’, from the bad trader. By extension that meant Ignacio, who was the only Crow Master with any real ties to Ferelden. So Zevran was sent, Ferox following as he desired to be wherever his lover was, Horse trotting along happily. They took ship posing as merchants, though the ship they were on, just like any Antivan vessel, was built for speed, and was carrying a wide range of stock, predominately from both Zevran’s plantation and Ignacio’s vineyard and tea farm. After all, House business didn’t exclude _personal_ business. Or profit. 

Especially at the level they were playing at. 

_La Luz_ was quietly outfitted for war, however, Ferox hadn’t realized that was what it was, until Llomerryn pirates had been seen, and quickly scuttled. Beneath the water was bronze plating over the wooden planks, common apparently to Antivan vessels, and huge harpoons could be mounted, small ballistae shooting grapples that tore through rigging, and buckets of flaming Rivainian Fire, baskets of firebombs - the pirates had quickly fled, or tried to, left to sink on the open water near Hercinia. The port at Ostwick yielded clues as to where their target was heading, some trade, and a mabari female, companionless, with a deep ebony coat, white scars flashing like lightning over her sides. Quickly dubbed ‘Lightning’, she had seemed familiar, had _certainly_ recognized Horse, so he supposed she must have come from the kennels at the Vigil, as there had been some of the highest concentration of mabari Ferox had seen since Ostagar. Ferox and Zevran had to learn how to tune out the two mabari’s play, just as Horse had always done for them, with good natured ribbing and pillow grabbing to cover heads as a result.

A few hours before dawn as they neared Kirkwall, the ship that they were looking for came in to view. Or so their captain said, staring through his spyglass intently. Zevran was already armoured, and had unlimbered his huge bow, ready and waiting along with the others.

“ _Joder!_ She is sitting low in the water!” swearing and cursing, the captain nearly threw his spyglass.

Holding out a hand in a request that wasn’t, Zevran raised a brow, “Might I look?” 

“ _Braksa_ , she is. And that is a great deal of extra weight. Cargo must be filled to the brim!” It was only for show, the politeness, as they knew who was technically in charge of the mission, “Do you think we can overtake them without doing damage? Maybe some of what is in there might be of some worth still instead of just burning it to the waterline.”

“Aye, we can,” agreement, though a fight between two ships that risked boarding and trying to prevent sinking was a dangerous thing. 

Ferox grabbed the lightest of his leathers, swords at his hip, he already knew the answer, “If that ship’s sitting low in the water from being so full - that means refugees, doesn’t it?”

“ _Si, amora_ , it does,” a curt nod. 

“What will happen to them, those that survive?” that twinge there in his gut, the one that remained forever a man of Ferelden. The one that had killed an Archdemon, not just to stop the mindsong, but to protect fields, the workers of them, the craftsmen, the nobles, the Dalish, even the dwarves. Quietly, “Will they be returned to their homes?”

Zevran’s lips pursed, “Some. Perhaps. Ferelden is not wealthy enough to tender ransoms, and few nobles who care, could afford it beyond a handful or two.”

“The Free Marches don’t _do_ slavery,” he pointed out, as they were close enough for the many lighthouses to be seen. 

“Ferox, it does not _matter_ what Kirkwall or the other cities of the Free Marches ‘do’. It does not _matter_ what the Chantry says. Anything, anything at all, that the Guild wants - it gets,” head barely turning to glance at him. “This contract is worth a very, very, _very_ large sum of money, _querido._ That ship is currently worth almost as much as half of our plantation, due to bounty and cost of stores, and the cost of chasing them down.” He hissed, “Think of it this way - if we do not get to them first, they _will_ die, likely of privation or blood magic. Whereas if they are nursed back to health and sold in Antiva or Rivain? At worst they will have a life little different than what they were accustomed to in Ferelden. But without the fear of darkspawn eating them in the night, raping and turning their women into monsters, or of a permanent starvation lifestyle. You tell me - what is better? Hmn? Dying in your own waste or to fuel some maleficar’s spells? Or living on your knees, fed somewhat adequately, housed, and with something that you might look to as luxury? Hmn?” His jaw firmed, “We do what we must.”

“Peace, Zevran. You had me at blood magic and neither side of the Waking Sea is better than the other at the moment. I heard the other stories of darkspawn coming from Kirkwall as well.” It sounded believable, for those with their ears open.

He knew why his lover was slamming logic at him. Knew that the assassin knew him like no other - that the thought of putting his _own people_ into chains after rescuing them, would make him question why he had come, why he would ‘allow’ such a thing. But he had already asked a favour of the Guild, and it had been granted - and in excess. Perhaps in their eyes it was a continual transaction, they left him his peace, his lover, and even sent relief to Ferelden at his request as a form of thanks. Yet that thanks was also a trade, one that they could ask him to repay at any time. So he was left in an untenable position, on a Crow chartered, if not Crow _owned_ ship.

As soon as the ships were close enough, arrows began flying. Each target was selected carefully, a screaming sailor slammed from rigging only to be caught, stuck, and hang, feet kicking. Picking his own target, Ferox cursed the fact that he hadn’t been practicing enough, as his arrow struck a nonvital target. Until he realized that those on the ship around him were _purposefully_ sniping to leave as many alive as possible. So it seemed more money could be made with judicious choices apparently.

The wallowing merchant frigate turned slave-ship was dragged to Kirkwall’s port, the red lanteen sails of _La Luz_ having been taken down and replaced with pitch black, with the House of Crow’s seal on the mainsail. If ships could huddle in their berths and at their anchors, somehow Ferox thought they would. Worse, he knew suddenly that those around him were all Crows other than Horse and Light. What he had thought were just very good pirates or mercenaries, were beyond that. There would be no arguing, and those listening ears had all been listening intently. 

When the portmaster came to collect tariff, a bag of coin was pitched at his face, landing squarely before he could even open his mouth, the captain having directed his ship and the towed burden perfectly to land with gentle ‘thumps’ at docks without use of tugboats. Shuddering at the open, cocky and very intimidating show of power, Ferox kept a lid on it. No words were said as they disembarked, a contingent of Crows leaping the distance from rails to quay, and Zevran swaggered - somewhat subtly - as though he owned the place, when the two of them went down the plank. 

“We will want to speak to the Viscount,” Zevran muttered. “Pompous ass. At least, by all reports. And then I must speak with the current kingpin of crime at his filthy drinking hole. Ugh, hopefully it is better than last time. Nothing but Carta thugs.” 

Peering around, Ferox looked for the little repetitious singer of what he took as a nonsense song he heard, “Where is that child?” 

“What child?” it was distracted as they went to the towed ship, already mounting the walk. Making gestures, which the other Crows quickly followed, “Secure the area and get this wallowing tub of shit offloaded!”

Frowning as he rubbed the back of his neck, “The one who is singing made up words. The same ones over and over.”

Zevran looked at him, arms crossed, head cocked, cutting a fine figure as they watched the Crows begin their work, but the gold eyes were worried, “What singing? What child? I hear nothing.”

Listening carefully, closing his eyes to block out distractions, Ferox repeated what he heard, “Haf-cath, Ga-eaf, Asha, Ma-may, da-ashen, Horse, Yizgaphen...had? And emma me are all here.”

“Summer cat, winter, girl, mother, little girls...and you have murdered the words ‘lightning’, more aptly ‘light seed’ but some use it for lightning,” ears twitched, listing the lyrics. “And someone’s blade or sword.” In a sing-song, “Haf’cath, Gaeaf, Asha, Mamae, da’asha’en, Horse, Ysgafnhad, and Emma’mi - is that what you are hearing?”

The tune was different but the rolling words were exactly the same, “Yes. You hear it?”

“No,” he shook his head. “I do not. But you do not speak elvish at all, yet said those words, so you must actually be hearing something, _amora._ Troubling,” he frowned, scanning the crowds. “Why would someone be singing about Lightning and Horse? Odder still, Light just received her name. Nor do I know who the other words are supposed to designate. We will look into it - later. First we must assess the damages and costs of healing what is recovered. Then find and speak to the Viscount, then that hairball Varric, then we will make time for this puzzle. I am sorry, _querido_ , but it will have to wait until then.”

The hold was mostly cleared out, most of those there stumbled, barely able to stand, cringing at the brightness of light. Broth soaked bread was passed to all of those who were led out, a warehouse was made open to hold his countrymen, whether the Crows would be paying the owners or not, Ferox didn’t wish to think too long about it. The one thing Ferox was truly relieved over, was the fact that the Crows didn’t hand out too much food - enough to be something, but not so much to harm those who had gone too long without much of anything. 

“Is that all of them?” his lover asked as a Crow came back up slowly.

“No, _El Jeffe_ , there is some that will not come up, some that are dead. _Dos bebes y madre,_ ” the elf leaned in to speak softly to Zevran.

“ _Babies_? On a slave ship? Dear Maker,” Zevran went grey ‘round the edges and was quickly sliding down into the hold. “ _Amora_ , I may need you to help with this. Thiago - get a healer _now, va mos_.”

Ferox didn’t understand and he truly did not wish to go into the dark, but what he did comprehend was that a Ferelden, someone with a familiar accent, or even if they could be convinced of _who_ he was if necessary - might be enough to get those who were too afraid to come out, to allow themselves to be helped. Shuddering in the stink that was a disgusting pall that hurt even his sinuses, Ferox cautiously made his way, leaving the square of sun slowly, relieved when a familiar hand grasped his, leading him. 

“Lord Cousland,” the name and reason very apparent from Zevran’s use, and he _knew_ it wasn’t bandied about without purpose, but it still made him shudder when it came from his lover’s mouth in the king’s tongue. “Your countrymen have been found,” fiction and truth in one, just loud enough for those shifting and frightened in the dark to hear, as though it was just a conversation.

Knowing this would be the name they would be cursing when they were hauled out, his stomach hurt again, but it was this, or let them die in this darkness and he answered in the tongue of his homeland with proper formality, “This is appalling. Who has not yet been brought out to sun and fresh air?” hoping they would hear and know a sound from home.

There was a whimpering cry, a woman’s frantic and quiet voice urgently trying to silence it, terror in the words, incomprehensible. Others who could move, could crawl, came closer, quickly drowning out the sounds of small ones. Zevran’s voice rose just loud enough for a pair of prepared elven ears to hear the order to come and assist. But Zevran continued to lead him in the direction of the frightened woman’s voice and that pathetic mewl. Quickly the last were removed, and Ferox almost tripped over a dead body, slipped in the slick disgusting muck of human waste left to rot. In his chest his heart thought it would explode, _no one_ deserved to have gone through this. Yet he knew the terror the woman must feel for the two babies with her, the fear of sunlight, that it was a trap - especially since it actually _was_. Eyes watering and tearing up, he told himself it was just the stench, and not self-loathing for what they were doing and what had been done and what would be done. 

Zevran squatted carefully, his voice going to that hypnotic timbre that was so rarely used anymore, reserved for those who were in desperate need of convincing of something, “My dear, please, I know that you are frightened, but you do not have to run. There is...we will not harm you or your children. We have food, we have water, we will help. We were _hired_ to find this vessel.”

“Y-y-you’re...you’re...the...the...him...” they were far from the light, but when Ferox shifted it must have fallen just enough for Zevran to be illuminated to eyes that had grown used to nothing but darkness. “Oh...oh Maker you’re...I know you. The-the Hero..Hero’s man...you had...dinner...Edric, oh Maker...”

Ferox’s stomach heaved as soon as he heard that the woman recognized Zevran, but when he heard the name ‘Edric’ it summoned up a swarthy guard who could have been a relative. Shoving his fist into his mouth, Ferox bit down, struggling to not lose the contents of his stomach. Only through sheer effort did he repress it, squat beside Zevran and use the gentlest tone he could find, rumbles and all, “Moira, if I recall...? Let us help you, _please_.”

The skin and bones that wound up in his arms barely resembled anything human. Zevran had the two babies, a toddler and barely a toddler. Ferox did _not_ want to contemplate how Moira had managed to keep them alive the months they had to have been locked on the ship. Once ebony hair was a rats’ nest, filthy and likely lice ridden, and it was painful to see one of those that had made him feel like an honest hero - not some puffed up and paraded, impossible being - reduced to this. And the babies, his heart thought he couldn’t take looking at the tiny faces, swollen with edema and malnutrition. If he was crying, Ferox didn’t care, he couldn’t help it, and bore it with his head held high, gaze unfocused ahead. It wasn’t to the warehouse with the others that they went, but to another warehouse that was smaller, with a storefront, and it was blessedly dimmer inside, making the babies cease their weak, heartrending mewling. 

The storekeeper was staring at them wide-eyed, clearly wished to protest, but a sharp, deadly look from Ferox stilled the man in his tracks. “Warm some water.”

Gently Ferox sat, back to the wall with Moira in his lap, copying Zevran, who kept a secure hold on both children, cradling them, whispering to them softly, “ _Hola, mis chicas_ , I bet you would like something to nibble, hmn?” A quick brown hand deftly managed to pull out a chunk of honey candy which he carefully broke in half and held to small mouths. “Suck on this, it will help.” Another piece was produced and passed to Ferox, “Do not eat this too quickly, my dear. It is just to help until we have a healer here to see to you and these littles.”

Ferox bit his tongue, swallowing further tears - self-loathing, rage at those who could do this, pain and empathy - as he had to shift his countrywoman to sit as comfortably as she could in his lap. Speaking Antivan, “Love, we can not do this to them.”

“Them we can take,” it was still in that hypnotically soothing voice. “To the plantation, beloved. They will be safe there. Healthy there.”

Iago popped his head in, “ _El Jeffe_ , there are healers, but one man is...ah -”

“Let me in,” it was a harsher version of Zevran’s voice, but similar, then a form that was built like a horseclansmen but obviously an elf, bodily hoisted one handed the Crow up and set him aside. “Let me see what trouble they have gotten into now.” 

The singing was there, and that paired with the frustrated overload of the morning and up until now, he thought he had to be seeing and hearing things. Dazedly he noted the face, the tattoos on the cheek, the blond hair, gold-brown-bronze skin. Those shoulders, he knew those. But the body was too long, long enough to be as tall as himself - _Maybe even taller_ \- he couldn’t tell. A torrent of questions in rapid Antivan, sprinkled heavily with elvish and _Zamas Ga’hals Iunimasilsh_ was incomprehensible. He was just trying to sit up straight suddenly. And when those eyes, so familiar, so known, so loved and desired and needed slid over to him, they were the same and horrifyingly wrong. Flat. Hard. Cold. But they moved from him to Moira and the children, assessing, the edges softening immediately. Actions were taken, a waterskin was upended and a thin leather tube attached to a wickedly sharp porcupine needle was slid beneath Moira’s skin, who was too tired to protest, only understanding the most important thing: real help had arrived. Ferox held the waterskin up, while the actions were repeated with the little ones, smaller pouches filled for them and they only stared as the odd twin held up both skins. 

“This will help with the dehydration and some of what they need most right now,” gravelled and harsh, but the words were spoken gently. “Welcome to Kirkwall. Explanations can wait until _em’lath’sa_ has time. She will be here shortly. This will help them keep until then. For now, you can call me Dassan.”

“Thank you, Dassan. I am Ferox.”

“-Cousland, I know,” it came easily. “And I know you also, Zevran, but as I said, introductions can wait. Elissa and Eleanor and Moira are first on _em’lath’sa’s_ list. The Anders and the Hawkes, and probably an Amell if she can be bothered to get out of some fool’s bed or other, is likely to be there also. I even hauled Merrill out by those absurd ears of hers. She may not be the brightest, but she is at least semi-competent in dealing with these matters.”

The song, thankfully, had stopped, although Ferox didn’t remember when. Instead he began to hear other things, half a conversation in the same voice as if somebody was standing in a doorway talking to someone outside or around the corner of a building and he could only hear the person there in front of him, only to his eyes there was no one there. He wanted to look over his shoulder, but his back was against a wall, there wasn’t, couldn’t be anyone there. 

After too many long minutes, the front door of the shop opened and Iago called out again, “ _El Jeffe_ , the healer has come.”

Quiet steps, louder than Zevran’s, quick on the wooden floor another elf entered the back room. Ferox heard...no it was not heard, it was not out loud, the song again, but not sung this time, as eyes swept over them assessing and taking inventory. Not a word or a spell cast that he could see, the little white-haired elf was at the babies in Zevran’s arms. Flickers of green light curled round on her limbs in the dim light while he ‘heard’ with something other than his ears, a soft reassuring hum. If this was healing, it wasn’t like Morrigan’s or Wynne’s, or even Zamitie’s. Yet after a very short time, both of the children appeared better, even in the softer light. 

Knowing Moira was watching as well, Ferox finally whispered, “What is she doing?” 

Zevran barely glanced at him, returning to watching the elf intently, “Healing them - she looks to be of my mother’s people. There are many kinds of healer, _amora._ ”

The words were said for Moira’s worried benefit, but still his lover did not remove his gaze, and while Zevran was clearly calm, Ferox was aware of how fast his lover could move if pressed. Moira seemed slightly stronger but was too focused on her children to really care about anything else. That left him able to take another look at Dassan. He had to repress a shudder, realizing that the lean elf had been watching _him_ just as closely as Zevran was observing the white-haired girl.

He watched as each child received a kiss, then the girl reached up to touch Zevran’s face, the markings on his temple down to his cheek with great tenderness, intimacy and familiarity. Thumbing the rays in the corner of his eyes, the girl smiled at his lover and Ferox watched something strange cross Zevran’s face, as if he had tasted something new and couldn’t decide if he really liked it or not, or perhaps was merely trying to figure out what was in it.

The voice was there again, _‘The **da’asha’en** are hungry, but no longer hurt and can eat safely. **Emma mi** , these ones will need a safe place, but **Haf’cath **cannot hear this **da’sa** all the time...he has not been given a key. This one must care for the Mamae.’****_

The pack ‘emmamee’ or Dassan, whichever he was, had carried was dug through and a bowl was pulled out, broth poured in, and bigger pieces of bread, “I will help you feed your _da’len’en, hermano_. I brought no milk - I did not know this little one was too little for more than this. But it is safe now. _Em’lath’sa_ will tend to Moira now. Trouble -” gold eyes flicked to him, “what you hear is real. _Hamin_ , questions later.”

The healer approached and sat next to him holding out her hands to Moira. Touches light, she took the larger hand between her own small sun-bronzed ones. Ferox watched the flickers of light again, seeing that they followed the trail of odd tattoos. The markings were unlike any that the Dalish he had met wore and reminded him of Zama-mama’s Work. Nowhere as intricate, he would have sworn that they looked like real ivy or some other kind of vine on her skin. The healer’s ‘talking’ continued, soothing, reassuring Moira that her children were safe, that everything was well, that she had been found by ones who cared for her and for the little girls, there were no worries and all would be well. 

Girls, both. Ferox had held Elissa in Edric’s house in Amaranthine, held her for hours and the parents had let him cherish that remembered flickering flame of something tiny in his large hands. Since leaving the hold, the woman had barely spoken, “Moira, what’s the name of the baby? I know Elissa, she has such big eyes, just like yours.” He was hoping to break the silence, to reach her again. She was hiding even while watching the children, skittish and frightened.

A muted shiver went through her, “Eleanor. She’s...she’s - what month is it? I...she might be twelve months now...I...I don’t know.”

“It is nearly Summer’s Day, Justinian, second week of the sixth month, nine-thirty-five of the Dragon Age,” murmured quietly. “What month was she born? 

She hiccuped, “Summer’s Day, before dawn. Edric...Edric was so happy.”

Rocking her gently but not enough to dislodge the healer’s hands, “You did well. We’ll have a birthday cake for her, everyone can have a slice.” Thinking again, “But, I never asked, when was Elissa’s birthday? Wasn’t it in the fall?”

“Harvestmere, she’s almost two and a half years older, just a little more,” it was still very quiet, but she hadn’t ever been a loud woman, yet it was the heartbreaking whisper that was afraid of drawing notice even as she gained strength.

“Well they both have a good appetite,” following how her gaze remained locked on the girls, who were being fed very slowly, but allowed to eat until tiny tummies became round in their little rags, even as the poor woman licked her lips hungrily, but didn’t ask for herself, clearly holding tight to making sure her girls were full before letting herself take any. Gingerly withdrawing a hand, he held it out to Dassan, “Is there a little bit? Moira, do you think you could take in some?”

Dassan had Eleanor in his lap as she had scooted towards him, and was sucking on another bit of honeycomb, “I have some cheese Moira - do you think you could nibble on that? It would be too much for this _da’asha_ , but you need something heavier for yourself so you can make milk.”

Reaching in the satchel at her hip, the healer absently handed Ferox a small water skin, _’This first, then cheese. The Mamae saved everything for the **da’asha’en**.’_

Taking out the cork, he smelled something familiar, “Water with elfroot, a tea, I think.” Holding the skin, Ferox helped Moira hold it while she drank, even with the quick thinking of Dassan to rehydrate them, if Moria had given everything to the girls, she needed more...especially if she was feeding Eleanor. 

_’The Mamae is healed and will be able to care for the **da’len’en**. This one has seen to it. Let her eat and sleep, but there will be many worries. Not all who come to hurt wear armour. You are not Gaeaf...you will need a new name.’_

Brow beetling, “I already have one; I’m Ferox.”

Green eyes turned from Moira and looked at him and it felt as he were caught in Zama’mama’s gaze. He was being weighed and measured by something timeless. _’This Asha knows who you are. But you know already that names have power, you have had this talk before. The strong markings on you have been tasted and this one knows who you have spoken with. This one would like you to carry a message back as assistance is needed.’_

As he was about open his mouth to agree, the message was pressed into his memory. In his mind it looked like markings and pictures on a folded in a cloth, and he didn’t know what any of it meant and nearly asked, but again she answered before the words could be formed. 

_’It is not for you, but for the Zama. She will know what they are. It will not hurt anyone, and may help much.’ _Her palm pressed to his chest, five fingers spread, and warmth radiated throughout his body...emanating from the amulet...her palm was on the amulet, _’This one promises, Tawdd [He melts, literally: molten]. Feed the Mamae her food, it is needed. Then she will be very sleepy. You will care for her, as she is also needed.’___

__The healer moved the pouch closer so that Ferox could hand bites to Moira as she watched the girls. Sure enough, when the food was gone, eyelids fluttered over the deep blue eyes and she slept._ _

__The girl moved back to Zevran’s side and put a hand on his arm before ‘talking’ or whatever she was doing. Somehow, now that she had talked only to him when asking for help, Ferox felt the difference when she began to talk to everyone, _’These ones need a safe place to rest. The ship is a bad place for them, the Mamae was hurt many times to save the **da’len’en**. She cannot go there.’__ _

__“I was not planning on having them on a ship, the cabin is too small, and they likely will not want either of us very far from them,” Zevran glanced at Eleanor who was looking up at Dassan, who, without flinching, kissed the dirty brow and let the grabby fingers touch the tattooed cheek. “And as grateful as I am to both of you for your help, I do not know how far the girls would want you to go either.”_ _

___’There are two places, but this one is not certain which is best. Gaeaf is Prince Consort to the Harpy, he and his Haf’cath have a place here that is very large and has many rooms for **da’len’en** , beds and toys for them.’_ Images and information flashed into his mind, unfolding, blooming, showing himself, and not himself, older, colder. Zevran with a tightness to his shoulders, a fear in his look when gazing upon his near twin as though at any moment he would disappear. Moira, vibrant and soft, clean and without fear. Little girls - but much older than they were now, racing and playing. Then a boy, one with peculiar blue-brown eyes, his face in miniature and a big grin. Lightning and no Horse, which sent a pang, but it was just information. Later it could be looked at and analyzed. _’You have their faces and there would be no questions...other than where are the **da’len’en** , they would be at home, of course. **Emma mi** and this one are known there and can help. They will not recognize these **da’len’en** as the older ones, thinking they are other ones put in your care, along with the Mamae.’_ Large green eyes blinked slowly, _’There is also space above the clinic, but there are many sounds. Food will need to be fetched. Toys and beds also. Both are good. Both are secure.’__ _

__“Food and security, a place they can recognize...that is...what they need most,” Ferox said, fixating on those needs. “People they can recognize.”_ _

__Zevran shook his head, “You already have been identified to some, _querido._ Word is not likely to spread - not from the Crows. The others might speak, but dazed as they are, few might believe, and fewer still, care. It is up to you if you wish to break from anonymity, even in such a brief way.”_ _

___’Gaeaf is purchasing the way home of many displaced. He is not unknown here and his presence would not be questioned.’_ _ _

__His lover’s jaw set, “Gaeaf and _querido_ may...be the same person, but they are not. Already I have used his name, when before we have been careful.” Unsaid was that there were personal reasons that had nothing to do with fear, but self-identity as to why he had slowly become Ferox Algere rather than remain Ferox Cousland. “It is a matter of mind rather than ethics.” The blond head was shaken, “As for the others, they cannot go home. Some, perhaps. But not when -”_ _

__“Not when _La Negra Diabolla_ and her crew wear their true colours.” Dassan grunted, “Someone wants those people, and paid for it. _La Negra Flotilla_ do not venture out of sovereign waters for much, and even less would make them pull out the blacks. It would have to be House backed, not much wiggle room - you would have to kill every last Crow there to put them off from claiming their goal. And only more would come.”_ _

__The healer blinked, and Ferox felt as if the building had shifted, _’Haf’cath, show this one the faces to whom his name, title was said to. Think them.’__ _

__Ferox was not shown them, for which he was grateful. Dassan’s hard words, hard truths, were heard. He didn’t like it, but he had no idea what to do other than firmly hide his head in the sand and care for what he had been given._ _

___’This one will not hurt them, Tawdd. There are no worries.’_ Getting to her feet, a brown hand pressed to Dassan back, and the healer left the shop._ _

__Every time he thought he would be nervous stepping onto the property, Ferox thought of a little loaf wrapped up snugly in a blanket, scrunched face looking up at him. So he weathered the greetings of ‘Your Highness,’ ‘Warden’ or ‘Commander’ without flinching. His arms were too full, Eleanor in his arms, while Zevran carried Moira, Dassan with Elissa on a hip. The healer had remained to care for those in the warehouse, Dassan said he would return for her once they were settled, as Iago and Thiago brought their footlockers. Horse kept nosing at Elissa’s foot, giving it a soothing lick, while Lightning stayed vigilant, her neck ruff at attention. To a bathroom that adjoined a large nursery they went, ascending stairs, as a servant hurriedly bustled before them to rush forward and open up the room and heat water for much needed tea, as running water was to be had he was told. He ignored them, they all did really. It was too much to look at otherwise._ _

__Ferox and Dassan set to work cleaning the filthy little girls up, who splashed some, spirits restoring as soon as warm water was to be had, a big washbasin placed near the tub. His lover had his work cut out for him, but he shook his head once, nodding at the girls, knowing that that was who and what he needed to focus on, the two pairs of luminous blue eyes fascinated with him, a babbled ‘dada’ from Eleanor’s mouth while Elissa grabbed at his braid when it slid forward, giggling out ‘daddy’ and ‘miss’yoo’. As much as that made him heartsick, he couldn’t correct them. If it made it easier for them, he would bear this as well._ _

__As soon as the trio were clean - a great deal of bath water changes later - he was in need of a bath himself. Some foul smelling paste was given to rub all over - for lice, nits and fleas Dassan had said - then it was his lover’s turn and his turn to sit on the edge of the bed, watching over them protectively. Dassan had left to get the healer, and Ferox put his head in his hands, too numb to think. Zevran slid up beside him, an arm curling around his waist, saying nothing._ _

__“This place is the Fade, must be, there is no other explanation for this...whatever this is. I’m asleep and I’m going to wake up and you’ll be there.”_ _

__“I wish that it were true that this was the Fade,” remorseful. “Other than being there when you awaken, I can promise nothing else of that. But we saved something, we can stand against _their_ nightmares, even if this is ours come true.”_ _

__Still mumbling into his hands, “And how do you explain Dassan or the pictures of the other us or this place and what they seem to be expecting?”_ _

__“I have none,” he shook his head, arm tightening around Ferox as he twisted enough to draw him in close. “We can do nothing but accept this as reality. As soon as we can, we will leave and set this place behind us. Kirkwall has always been...strange, but beyond that, I know no more than you. Before you ask me ‘how is it strange?’ - like the other things, I have nothing to say other than that it felt very odd when I was here last. But that was many years ago. And apparently - it has gotten stranger.”_ _

__“Maker.” Turning, Ferox hugged Zevran back, “I can’t decide if I’m going to be sick or not, thinking how everything could have turned out, did, if that girl’s not lying... And somethin’s tellin’ me she doesn’t lie.” Another thought occurred to him, “Maker. The girls are calling me Daddy...which means they’ve forgotten what he really looks like.”_ _

__Zevran kissed his crown, “Ferox, the two of you could have been brothers of different mothers, they are small, they are scared, and you have made them feel safe. You are enough like him - he had a quiet manner, just as you do - that for now, that is who they see. _Querido_ for them...to be as they are...they spent months in the dark of that hold. To cling to any scrap of something, and find it gives them security, the resemblance... They did not forget him. He has only changed in their eyes, but is still strong and can keep them safe from what lurks in the dark.”_ _

__“It would be better if we really knew what happened, and I don’t want... I’m not going to ask Moira.”_ _

__“Those answers will have to wait for a time, but she likely will speak upon them at some point, _amora_ ,” hands stroked his back, his head, his neck, the same way they did when the nightmares came, the same way when they were in the Deep Roads, the same way during the long march._ _

__“I love you and I’m not sorry I came...except for looking at an old pair of clothes I don’t want to wear. Can you imagine, Prince Consort to Anora and children, so many there were more that she didn’t picture, but I knew it, as if they were just off to the side.”_ _

__He heard Zevran swallow, “Because it would hurt that we did not know them. Or perhaps, judging from our...ages...in the images, so as to not influence our choices one way or another, _amora._ ”_ _

__“Possibly. We, they, didn’t look very happy... She told me that I wasn’t Gaeaf, but she’s still calling you Haf’cath.”_ _

__“Winter...difference in mindset? You certainly are not very frosty,” punctuated by an attempt at levity and a kiss to his neck._ _

__Rumbling, “Nope, too busy soaking in my personal sun and melting into sweaty puddles in your Antivan summers. I couldn’t imagine not being in that light. Which would mean, he’s not doing that... I wonder what went wrong.”_ _

__“I do not know, _querido_ ,” another kiss placed firmly to his shoulder. “Perhaps he was not let in. Perhaps Alistair could not have shouldered the burden, and you decided it was best that you did. Perhaps something else happened - somewhere, we diverged, and are here now, where we are, and they are where they are now, because of it.”_ _

__“There are too many choices made to know where. That choice, whatever it was, is past and we will walk the path under our feet. Up until today, I would have said there were few large surprises on that path,” the easy good humour returned to him along with Zevran’s ever present warmth seeping into his bones._ _

__Moira’s wake-up wasn’t pleasant. It was quiet, almost silent. But a hand slowly crept over her girls, checking they were there. Obviously it was instinctual, that much Ferox could see. But he made the mistake of shifting, and wound up with an armful of scratching and biting. He let her wrestle him to the floor, and he remained motionless other than putting his hands over his face and protecting his eyes, weathering the attack until she was tired, falling over and sobbing._ _

__“Moira,” he kept his tone soothing, “Moira, you are safe. Open your eyes and look. Eleanor and Elissa are here, you are safe. We will not hurt you.”_ _

__Wild-eyed she looked around, almost unseeing, other than her girls trying to wiggle from the bed saying ‘mama’ and ‘dada’ fearfully, Zevran on his stomach beside them, gently keeping them from falling off and depositing them to the floor. They quickly scooted between them, eyes far too big for their gaunt faces, looking around worriedly for some threat. It took a moment for the haze in Moira’s expression to clear, but she had already scooped Eleanor and Elissa and held them tight, staring first at him then at Zevran._ _

__“Where - where are we?” shuddering, still debating, but he could feel her inching closer to him._ _

__Ferox slowly reached out a hand, touching hers, “Kirkwall, at a friend’s estate. No one will touch you, or them. No one will harm them. They would have to get through us first.” Seeing the hesitation, but also the headway, “I promise. Zevran and I will keep you three safe, no matter what.”_ _

__“Agreed,” the Crow’s movements were just as slow as his and he came to sit on the floor. “I, myself, am a parent, and I know how frightening it is, and understand how hard you worked to keep them safe. We will make sure that you do not have to be scared like that again. To work like that again. We will keep you safe.”_ _

__“Where are...where are the other two...? The girl, the man?” she couldn’t tear her eyes away to look._ _

__Zevran jerked his chin, pointing with his head, “The other side of the room. We will not crowd you.”_ _

__“Daddy,” it was a bit cranky and Elissa squirmed trying to get free of Moira’s death grip to get into his lap. “Wan’Daddy,” arms waving to him._ _

__That seemed to break Moira’s spell and her hold went lax, “Baby, he’s Lord -”_ _

__Interrupting, “Moira,” speaking low and urgently, “if they find comfort in it, let them.” Ferox sat up, allowing Elissa to cuddle into his lap sideways, only putting his arm around her when she huffed, keeping the motion slow so Moira could watch. “I don’t mind. If it helps, I can do this for them. And it’s Ferox now. Not ‘Warden’. Not ‘Lord’. Not even ‘Ser’. Just Ferox.”_ _

__There was clearing of a throat, “I imagine you are all very hungry. Yes, even you, Trouble. There will be food coming up in just a little bit.” At the sound of Dassan’s voice Eleanor had scooted from Moira’s grip and scooched along the floor, dragging herself towards him, obviously not having learned enough of crawling to do that. The elf squatted and twisted her back around gently and gave her diapered bottom a push, “Go find Mamae. Go on, you can do it.” The Crow, amazingly or disturbingly - Ferox couldn’t decide, got on the floor and began crawling with Eleanor, “Race you. One, two, three - go.”_ _

__Rubbing a the heel of a palm at his eye, Ferox almost whimpered. His brain wanted to break. _His_ Zevran he could see doing that. But this odd ‘Dassan’ who was clearly a duplicate of some sort, with that hardened edge to him that never seemed to relent - at least not in the half day he had known him - was pushing along an uncoordinated baby, ‘racing’ towards Moira. Who, amazingly, managed a laugh. As soon as the sound came out, she clapped her hands over her mouth, eyes gone fearful at the sound of her own laughter, but no one changed body language, everyone kept how they were. Until Dassan rolled on his back, Eleanor using him like a climbing toy, and he picked her up rocking her side to side gently, making silly noises before setting her back down. If there was any way to ever make him less intimidating - that was it. And it was successful, as another laugh, a very small one, but a laugh nonetheless, came out. _ _

__The healing was going to be slow, Moira was damaged in ways that sleep, food, and safety, could not easily repair. She had spent too much time in that pit, at the mercy of others, he had barely managed it and he didn’t know what he would have done if Zevran hadn’t gotten to him. Either to unfreeze him and show him sunlight, or to take him from the bowels of Fort Drakon._ _

__Their days and nights developed an odd routine. Somebody was always on watch, the girls slowly began explore and by consequence so did Moira, who was unwilling to let them out of her sight. Food was plentiful, fresh air and room to play available. A little bit of muscle and weight was put on, and Eleanor finally managed to pull herself - on her own - to stand. Well, using Horse’s shoulder, but it was close enough. Elissa’s shell-shocked look had dissipated quickly, but she often wanted to cuddle up to Zevran, while Eleanor focused on himself and Dassan._ _

__The healer checked on the girls, something which quickly became cursory, a quick touch to Zevran then spent the greatest amount of time split between himself and Moira. Ferox knew based on what Zama-mama had discussed, what the girl was trying to do, but she didn’t _do_ anything. He didn’t end up in a smelly puddle needing a shower, food, and sleep, and was about to tell her to leave off. Moira, however, seemed better afterwards, not that he could point to much of anything, a smile, or another laugh, but, so little. After the Fort, Ferox spent the better part of...nobody told him how long he lay there wanting to die. And Moira had been there for months...for him it was probably only a few days...he had no right to judge. He protected no one and only dreamed of a place he believed to be imaginary so he could find some escape. In order to protect the girls, she had to stay present, there was no escape. He had no right..._ _

__After napping one afternoon and jerking awake again, which led to a startled Moira, it occurred to Ferox that if anybody got attacked it was usually him. If he was supposed to remind her of Edric...sternly reminding himself not to go there because he might ask what happened. However, as he was the least quiet and slow moving, i.e. graceful, he ended up startling her. If he got to pick a form to be reborn in, being elvish didn’t look too bad right now. The next time another nap was to be had, Zevran had given Ferox’s arm a tiny push, to lay his hand up against an upturned hip. He would have said something, but his lover said to trust him, and as tired as Ferox was, he wasn’t going to argue. By the time he woke next, Moira had rolled over to face him, her head tucked on his shoulder, even though she was curled into a very small, tight ball. Without thinking, Ferox rubbed her back even as his other hand slapped into his eye socket, trying to summon up wakefulness the way Wynne could snap her fingers for a spell._ _

__Beside him Moira relaxed then tensed, “Shhh, it s’alright,” mumbling as he continued to touch gently. “Can go back ta schleep...”_ _

__While she didn’t go back to sleep, she did begin to relax, body gradually stretching out beside him instead of huddling in nightmare. A broken, watery whisper, “Thank you.”_ _

__Making a long pass as he would during Zevran’s rare bouts of nightmares, from crown to hip, Ferox tugged her a little closer. “Happy ta help.”_ _

__It was a tiny thing, but it _did_ help. He held onto that. And when she would fall asleep, it was usually because he was right there, the unconscious association with sleeping safely with Edric helping her sink back into rest. _ _

__Overall, adding to their little family didn’t bother him, he could see how, given time, they would be wonderful. However within a short time he had to be careful when he woke up, fearful of being struck again...and not because he was startling anyone... Well he would have had Moira gotten close enough to feel his thrumming and agitated state. Ferox couldn’t remember being without Zevran, being without Zevran physically, in a very long time, to have him nearby and be unable to have that...to have him. It was all he was beginning to think about. Even working in his journal, or taking a few minutes break to spar, he wasn’t thinking of anything else. He needed him...needed a closet...no, not a closet, but a minute of heat and sun and... With hands shaking, he sheathed the sword afraid he was going to take to re-shaping hedges._ _

__Ferox knew that they could not go back by ship. That meant taking the road, and that meant weeks of travel, and added on top of that, never being alone. Probably not until they reached Antiva, and then Moira would be afraid of the city and the noises, and...sitting on the stone bench, knowing that he needed to go back inside, he couldn’t. Their peaceful world had just turned upside down. He could have stayed in Amaranthine and been Fergus’ vassal, he would have had boots on the ground when the darkspawn welled up out of the Deep Roads, could have prevented, or done his best to prevent, the damage, saved Edric, done everything he didn’t want to do... It suddenly struck him that was why the other was so unhappy, so cold...he had taken on the tasks that Ferox selfishly turned away from. But Gaeaf’s selflessness had saved Moria from this fate, she and the children were the happy ones in that picture the healer shared. Their happiness for hers. Ferox wondered if what else Gaeaf had was worth that sacrifice. Three children, more in the wings...but Gaeaf’s Zevran, Maker, that face nearly broke his heart. Too many choices between here and there._ _

__Again the need for his own shook him and grasped the sound of hurt for everything as it worked its way up his throat. Time after time, he put himself in Moira’s shoes so he did not say the wrong thing. Knowing what happened to the rest of the ones on the ship, sent back to Antiva, instead of being returned to their homes, or at least some semblance of them, and wondering if they had been gathered by someone to be sold off, ate at him. Trying to care for the ones he could save, he was tired and could not see a way to return to peace, or have a return to simplicity. Ferox, selfishly, wanted a mouthful of sunshine, a morning of brown limbs tangled with his, loose blond hair on the pillow, a steady heartbeat he could count on, arms full of laughter of one who wanted, needed him. Any burden could born, save losing Zevran, because the elf was the only reason he could bear anything at all._ _

__When Ferox managed to trudge up the stairs, Moira and Zevran were sitting beside the passed out girls who liked to sleep sandwiched between the two mabari, but Horse, like himself, had been going cabin crazy and had needed to run outside. So Moira and Zevran were providing cuddles to the girls, and talking softly. One of his lover’s ears flicked in his direction, a perfect and delectable ear, one he would give anything to touch, no matter how much their combined presence was needed. Hanging onto the door frame, he made himself stay quiet and watch as Zevran’s hand would continually touch Moira in some light and soft way, recognizing it as the same healing touch he had received._ _

__“You do not have to offer that Moira,” accented, warm. “He and I are a couple, we do not expect you to try and pay us with that or anything for that matter. But as you know, there are a few impracticalities of two men having a family.”_ _

__It was a small one, but it was a giggle, “Oh Maker - I don’t think that would work at all.”_ _

__“Hmn, no, it would not. Though it does not stop us from trying, frequently and loudly,” ruefully. With more seriousness, “But because he and I cannot have children, perhaps you would not mind us - you, myself, Ferox - being joint parents of these two little bits? Having a family is what I have always wanted, my daughter remained with her mother for many years, so I do not see her as often as I would like. And my mother is a very independent woman with her own business, so is not able to come and go as often as we do from the farm to the city. And Ferox lost nearly everything during the Blight.”_ _

__Moira clearly was thinking it over, “Would...would you both expect more children?”_ _

__“Expect? No,” he shook his head once, working the slim fingers between his. “I think that is best left for you to decide at a later time. Remember, neither of us are looking for sex from you Moira. You are not a prisoner, you are not a slave. You are a friend in need that we could help, and you are also someone to protect. People...people like Ferox need that, you know.”_ _

__“Edric is...was...was like that,” a shiver travelled down the still too thin back, the clothes that had been found were too big in all the places a healthy person would have stores. “After the battle at Denerim, he didn’t want to return to carpentry. So he became a guard. Said that he needed to protect, more than he needed to whittle wood.”_ _

__“Sometimes that is just how it is.” The two were quiet, Zevran watching the girls and Moira sneaking glances at the Crow then back to her children. Eventually his lover spoke, “Though on our earlier topic, I do have a request, not to alarm you. Would you be willing to hear it Moira?”_ _

__He could see her nervousness, but the steadiness, the immovable strength Ferox had relied upon so long was there, and he could only watch it in action. “Wh-what is it?”_ _

__“It is hard not to miss holding him and being held by him, Moira. Do you think - not right now, but soon, a day or two perhaps? - that it might be alright for he and I to go to another room to spend a few hours together?” it was said in such a way that the choice was left completely up to Moira - did she feel safe enough to let them _both_ out of her sight for several hours? “Light, Horse, Dassan and Dulsanaya would be right here to keep the girls safe. Ferox and I would be near, but, I warn you, he and I tend to be...noisy. There is a bedroom several doors on the left from here, that is where we would be. Do not answer now, just, think about it, please?”_ _

__For fear of tackling Zevran and hauling him off for some gratuitous display of intimacy, Ferox gripped the door frame and held his ground, even as he had the oddest sensation that he was witnessing what Horse must have seen during the Blight. The words were different, but the voice in which they were delivered - soothing, reassuring, the open manner - were the same. The admissions of loneliness, fear, hope, need... At the time he did not see it, did not understand it, just responded to it. Giving careful, thoughtful choices - or at least the illusion of them, keeping her apprised before anything was done, these were healing spells that didn’t take a mage, just patience and time. He could see that Moira wanted to beg them to not leave, but also that she didn’t want to be a burden, at war with each other from the way she kept rocking towards, then looking away._ _

__A brown fingered hand picked hers up, lifting it to brush lips over fingertips tenderly, reassuringly, “Not today. Not tomorrow. Maybe not the day after that. You do not have to make up your mind right this moment Moira.”_ _

__“Now. Now would be - no, wait until...until Horse is back,” said in a rush, clearly pouncing and pushing herself. Ferox knew it, Zevran did also. But this had to be up to her._ _

__“Then we will wait until Horse is back.”_ _

__The problem with that voice was the warring desire to please it while not being actually ready to do what was wanted. It got him in enough trouble in the beginning, wanted to be able to give, but pushing himself too far. Jerking back from fears that had been tripped over, even forgotten ones, when trying to do too much, hurrying too quickly._ _

__Hearing the skittering of toenails behind him on the balcony, apparently someone else felt guilty at needing to be away too. Moving aside as the heavy body leaned into his leg for a moment of greeting, the hound trotted into the room, ears up as if asking what he had missed. Following, remembering not to startle, Ferox approached to join them on the bed to make general, ‘wasn’t listening in’ conversation, “Warm outside.”_ _

__Zevran stretched out beside him, pressing the line of his spine to his chest, and comfort instantly seeped into him. “ _Querido_ , it is warmer back home, you know this. Ah - we will need more frostrock to keep your burly self cool. Perhaps we should hang it through the rest of the house.”_ _

__Horse had his head on the end of the bed, velvety ears pricked forward, listening intently. “I blame the Chasind blood that runs in the family, probably where the occasional dark-skinned throwback like myself comes from.”_ _

__“Mmn, while I have no excuse,” a hand was held up, comparing it to Moira’s nearly white one. “I have always found fair skin intriguing, Moira. It is so pretty. Ferox looks healthy, and I look like I tripped into a vat of walnut stain.”_ _

__“Don’t say that - you’re handsome!” Moira scolded him, practically wagging a finger, obviously without realizing it. “Not like the elves in Ferelden - the men always look so much like...like...like they should have _breasts_. You’re robust and -” she trailed off realizing she had been complimenting _and_ scolding, flushing with embarrassment. _ _

__Ferox bent an arm under Zevran’s head trying not to laugh, “Well, I for one am glad he doesn’t have breasts.”_ _

__“Tchk, no imagination,” with much shaking of blond head, the back and forth bringing soft hair to Ferox’s face. “But I will say, I certainly stood out in a crowd in Ferelden. Felt like I should have a sign ‘hello, my name is Zevran - I am an elf and I am foreign, please stare at me’.”_ _

__Laughing softly, “You didn’t need to issue invitations, they were already looking, and for good reason. In Antiva, I’m the one that gets all of the strange looks, but as I am the tall ‘Ferelden barbarian’, I am left alone.”_ _

__“Barbarian?” Moira lay down, with the girls in the center of the bed, but her hand was still comfortably held in Zevran’s. “You’re not very barbaric.”_ _

__“It likely has something to do with the frequency of bathing,” Dassan was on a canvas tarp near the nursery’s windows, sanding at horse shaped thing diligently. “Antivans bathe every day. Sometimes more often than that.”_ _

__“Any more baths and I’ll be a walking wrinkled prune or never get to leave the water,” Ferox sighed gustily. “Zama-mama has insured that frequent bathing is a necessity, not just a daily ritual.” He was beginning to believe that if any additional time was gained to his thirty years, all of that time would have been spent washing, but since Zevran loved to wade in or sit under the waterfall with him, it was still time well spent._ _

__She shook her head in amazement, “No one washes away?”_ _

__“It helps with the heat,” Dassan explained blowing off some dust. “As does the general times people move around. When the sun is up high - everyone remains indoors, sleeps, eats, bathes...quiet things that do not take much energy.”_ _

__Leaning in for a breath of comforting scent, “I have come to the conclusion, at least from the Ferelden point of view, that the summers in Antiva are like our winters...you don’t want to be outside because of the weather. It’s not just prudent, but too much of it is dangerous.”_ _

__Thus distracted, Moira was kept to a slower pace of the dance. And he at least got to hold Zevran close for a short nap. That kept him going for the several days that Moira was gently put off from rushing her decision. After a handful of days of such tactics she woke up one day and told them in no uncertain terms that she didn’t want to keep them from each other. And, wonder of wonders, she said she would ask Dassan to get them if she got scared, but that she wanted them to take their time and not rush back on her account. Moira was resolved about it, but still obviously intimidated over the idea. Dulsanaya touched her then, one of those reassuring things, smoothing tension gently. Horse helped of course, displaying his baby herding abilities by walking by with Elissa perched upon his back giggling out his name._ _

__Slipping their leash, Ferox and Zevran managed to keep from running to the master bedroom down the hall. Barely. But it was managed. The door closed and then a lean body was slamming against him, squeezing and hanging on tight._ _

__Sliding down the wall, Ferox clung, returning the embrace. “Love, oh, love, I have missed you.”_ _

__A hand was in his hair, frantically working it loose, the other under his shirt, pressing at his back, “ _Amo...amo, mi amora, hermoso corizon, mino corizon_ , it has been...torture...” _ _

__“You are so patient, so kind. She couldn’t tell. I don’t know how you can be that calm all of the time.” Swiping an ear with his tongue, finally able to, after days of wanting to._ _

__Zevran shuddered against him, “To show impatience would have been...bad...” His shirt was tugged, “Off - off, please, I just need - I need to touch you.”_ _

__There was an instant of just wanting to open the door and throw the tunic out the door so he didn’t have to go through the motions or have to see what was left undone. Although it was quickly folded, Ferox didn’t move to put it anywhere important, safe, just there next to them. Compromise, it wouldn’t last, but it was enough to keep from getting to his feet right then. The bronze cheek was on his shoulder, nose and mouth pressed to his throat, and bare chest pressed to his, just touching, nothing more, a few ripples in the muscles under his hands were minuscule tremors as they both sought to relax._ _

__Air. Not trapped in a room with...eight people? Counting again to be sure, because it felt like more. Always someone touching, a hound, the healer, children, and guiltily he admitted, Moria. It had gotten more bearable since she was being shown that he and Zevran needed each other. And it showed her that they wouldn’t put demands on her, gave her reassurance, they were already a unit and that she didn’t need to, have to, do anything. Still the world was different, and Ferox needed it to settle down, chaos was not his forte, didn’t matter that the Blight and all of its up-in-the-air qualities were juggled somehow, it didn’t mean that he liked it. He liked knowing what to expect, liked knowing what was around the corner of the path, even if there were some surprises to keep things interesting... Surprises all of the time were easily overwhelming to someone like him who preferred stability._ _

__Ducking his head, Ferox claimed a taste of sunshine, unable to stop the groan. Anything would have done, so long as he had a taste. Or so he thought - because there was no way to survive off of a single small taste. Taking more, the rumbling started which quickly received a purr. He really should have been surprised, and actually - he wasn’t. Not at all. One little taste of what he had been craving for weeks that had felt endless and bottomless, he lost control over it, and the craving hit _hard_. Scent and flavour and things he hadn’t noticed before, yes, Zevran had always tasted good, but this was more, there was something citrus-y, peppery, like a bowl of those fresh baked spiced cookies Zama-mama had taught him to make, different ratios of cinnamon, black pepper, cardamom, nutmeg and ginger. Faint hints of how amber and honey smelled, exploded, nearly tasted on the back of his tongue. Fresh black tea leaves. _ _

__Releasing a harsh breath, Ferox tipped Zevran’s head to the side, drawing in a lungful, dazed as everything flowed into his head that he had never noticed, not ever so sharply and there had _never_ been _this much_. The last few days when his lover would get near, he had thought that perhaps some new scent had been applied, or maybe the batch of soap was more heavily perfumed than usual, and had been too distracted to investigate. Licking the bronzed skin, was it a lotion, soap, something applied? All he tasted was skin, the same as it always was, but stronger, as though before he had never tasted or smelled, and was suddenly shown how blind he had been. _ _

__Growling, Ferox panted before taking another long draught, pushing Zevran down firmly to the floor, nipping his way over a favourite and missed collarbone. It was the same there as it had been at the neck, and further, a bite and suck to the inside of an elbow, over the ruddy brown nipple adorned with gold, back to the mouth, the taste of sunlight had more. He couldn’t stop himself from canvassing his lover, from peeling leggings away, snarling when he found shoes, and yanked them off as well. Not that there were any sounds of disagreement, in fact there was just that long purring, heavily interspersed with groans as he moved back up the muscular legs, licking and biting the whole way, rubbing his face over each spot, trying to crawl into the light and bathe himself in its scent and taste. A leg slid over his shoulder, hands tightened in his hair, hips rising and tilting, the taste so longed for, so wanted, inundating his senses, texture so well known, impossibly soft skin over muscle and tissue. Massaging and playing as he sucked, milking Zevran until the mouthful of tangy bitter salt pulsed over his greedy tongue - Ferox didn’t stop there. He didn’t think he could stop anywhere. He just wanted...needed what Zevran had, the sun, rippling over his senses._ _

__Kissing his way back up, Ferox paid no mind to hands and feet working him free of his trews, only intent on Zevran’s mouth, if he didn’t have another taste of that, he just might die. Life wouldn’t be worth living if it was in the dark or underground anywhere away from the sun. Thick weight in his palm, the underside pressing to his own, heat and warmth, so hard it hurt, arms and legs wrapped around Ferox, teeth dug into his shoulder, biting. Ferox released a surprised hiss, the sharpness not enough to truly hurt, but to sting and he felt his eyes rolling back in his head, leaving him breathless. Finding an ear, the attention he paid it had Zevran rolling against him. As perspiration began to form, the smell of his lover grew stronger. The hollow at his throat became very fascinating. Yes, collar bones were his favorite, but...that was...and the way he could feel the air moving from lungs to the mouth had him growling even more, the sensation a great deal beyond ‘very nice’. Flexing and twitching there was another pulse, and the way that his name went from a moan to a growl - that feeling against his lips, the smell, the gushing from pent up need pooling in his hand - made him feel crazed._ _

__Growling around the kiss, hand slipping and sliding, fingers squeezing as they stroked Zevran’s cock firmly, wanting to work the last drop out, “More...I want...more...give me...more...”_ _

__His elven lover bucked, rolling them over, straddling his waist, a hand coasting over the bronze stomach, “More what, _querido_? This?” Fingers gathering up some of the spilled and smeared release, licking the tips before holding them near Ferox’s mouth, voice husky, “Is that what you want, _amante_?”_ _

__No thought, just desire, Ferox’s tongue flicked to a brown finger wrapping around it, drawing it in, sliding from third knuckle to first, licking, sucking every drop. Another, more wanted, needed. “More.”_ _

__Teeth sank into a broad bottom lip, gold eyes gone dark, almost entirely pupil as they hooded. The bronze form arched over him, a hand joining his, the other in his hair, tongue filling his mouth and the sound of heavy breathing, moist palms and the rolling growl that belonged to both of them at this point. Ferox felt drunk, wits dull outside of the sole thing he was focusing on, the sun. When another release made Zevran’s mouth breakaway, teeth baring, the result was worked thoroughly over Ferox’s chest, coating him in scent._ _

__The floor, it had been good, but they practically crawled to the bed after that, one trying to focus on searching the end tables for what was necessary, the other trying to lick and taste, circling and growling. Zevran pounced as soon as he had a vial of oil in hand, utilizing it quickly and slid down his manhood, riding in short rolling thrusts, arms braced on Ferox’s biceps, face flushed as he shamelessly used Ferox’s body for pleasure. Rubbing the coppery brown legs from knee to hip, a broad palm diverged to caress the tattooed cheek, groaning in time with Zevran’s muttering and whimpers, his other hand pleasuring the broad hardness, seeking to be coated in the evidence and smell of his lover. He held on as long as he could, to work as much of the glistening thickness free, but he couldn’t fight his body’s demands for long, and his back bowed, a plaintive whimper crawling its way up his throat. Emptied of his seed, Ferox flipped them over, scuttling over Zevran, waiting only long enough for his hole to be made slick before pushing himself down the wide cock._ _

__Zevran chuckled breathlessly, squeezing Ferox’s hips with that strong grip nearly leaving bruises, but it felt _good_ , “Mmn, new meaning to the term ‘cockfight’...?”_ _

__Muttering, “Then you win,” as he sank down in another seemingly endless slide. “Oh Maker. You win,” hunching his shoulders over Zevran to suck the tip of an ear._ _

__Good sex, Ferox had realized at some point, was like a very long practice bout. It left him sore, jelly-jointed, sleepy and sweaty. And very satisfied even as muscles tremored and burned. Sex with Zevran was always fulfilling, sometimes it was lovemaking, sometimes it was wild, sometimes it was comfort, and sometimes it was just a release of need. Because they usually had at the least two goes a day, he had experienced all of the above, and then some, and the only time they had ever spent any remotely prolonged period _not_ being intimate since they had started, was shortly after time being spent in or atop Fort Drakon. So it was no wonder this session had them both sprawled like ragdolls over the expansive bed._ _

__Zevran’s head was in the small of his back, cheek rubbing over his spine, a hand playfully stroking the underside of his ass. “Mmmn...I was not expecting this...”_ _

__“Wa’d... I mean, what do you mean?”_ _

__The slick swipe of tongue felt nice, as did the jet of cool air. “I had not thought we would be able to have sex this time. The next, certainly. But I did not wish to press... It has been difficult for you. For me also. But for you especially, the hold of the ship, the girls’ need.” A soft kiss was laid near a rib. “It would be easy to stir up memories, any one of these things.”_ _

__“Ahh. Hrm.” Those things were there, here, there...always, but it didn’t mean they had to be _here_. “You don’t have anything to do with any of that...didn’t do that.” Considering, both together yet needing them very far apart, the tone warned, “That, those things don’t belong here...don’t put it here, Zevran, please.”_ _

__His lover scooted to cuddle into his side, “I am sorry, _querido._ I just meant that I was thinking all that was desired was to be held.”_ _

__Another grunt of agreement, Ferox turned to draw him closer, needing for his arms to be full again. “Probably was, until you smelled so good.” Sighing and straightening out a kink in his back, “When did that happen?”_ _

__Zevran looked at him quizzically, “I smell, nor taste, any different than I have for years. Well, cleaner than during the Blight, certainly. And access to good salves and soaps helps also... Which we should probably make use of before going to the nursery...we smell like a brothel’s bunk when the whore has not changed the sheets for the last dozen or so customers.”_ _

__“Oh?” Laughter shook him, “So you’re not a frequent customer here? Forgot to bring your own sheets did you?” remembering Zevran’s advice._ _

__He grunted, leaning in to sniff then lick Ferox’s shoulder, “Mmmn...I am definitely a frequent customer of Ferox’s House of Cock.”_ _

__Unable to keep from laughing louder, “Oh - oh that was _terrible,_ and not worth the journey to get there.”_ _

__“Hmn - but I am always willing to go to great lengths for your length,” more terrible teasing, but the drowsy gold eyes were lit up._ _

__“Harrumph, joke or no, I still say you smell and taste different...not really different, but deeper, more detailed.”_ _

__Lips found his, moving lightly over them, “I have no answer for you, _amora._ I am no different than I have always been.”_ _

__Rumbling again, “No, before it was cloves and sunlight and,” squinting, trying to remember, “and now there’s pepper and some of that sandalwood and other things besides...honey and tea, and more. And I know how the room smells of all of those things and of us besides.” Thinking that this sounded foolish, Ferox tried another path, “It’s like waking up one morning able to breathe again after having a cold and the honeysuckle outside is blooming, but you didn’t know the night before because your head was all clogged up.”_ _

__“Well your sense of smell has always been...appalling. I thought you were just used to smelly things,” Zevran shrugged. “Hmn, well, perhaps the healer knows. If she can fix major internal damage and such, one supposes she might fix a broken sense of smell.”_ _

__Appalling? “Just because I kept Alistair around, not to mention Horse, doesn’t mean my nose is broken.” Unconvinced that the healer had done anything to him, Ferox reserved judgement. Changing the subject, “I would guess, if the ones who keep this estate are anything like us, there is a very nice tub in the other room big enough for two at the very least with plenty of hot water. I’ll hold you up, if you promise to keep me on my feet.”_ _

__His lover snickered, vaulting from the bed, “Ah but I have a second - or was it eighth? - wind, how about I hold you up and keep you on your feet, hmmn?”_ _


	9. Chapter 9

The Ferelden Embassy in Kirkwall seemed familiar, it was furnished with things Ferox would have liked before widening his travels to include Antiva and having found that the cushion-couches and low tables were actually very comfortable and good for stretching. Dark, heavy furniture, blues that reminded him of the Wardens’ faded peacock blue heraldry abounded. His counterpart was Prince Consort to Anora, Warden Commander of Ferelden, Hero of Ferelden - actively, and Arl of Vigil’s Keep, essentially taking Rendon Howe’s titles. So it was possible to be all of those things in spite of Wardens not having political power in Ferelden supposedly or not. 

The more he thought about it, the more he wondered at his selfishness, at running away, leaving everything behind, leaving Moira to be harmed. But each time he did, the image of the other Zevran’s frightened face came to mind, a face he had not observed on his own. Hurt one to help another? Thankful that the choice was not his, or if it was, it was long past, Ferox struggled to release those worries. His other had a child, the little healer called him Len and had named the girls, Elissa and Eleanor just as they were here now. Was Len his child with Anora? To even think of getting that close to her made his skin crawl. How could he...the other, have done that? Was Gaeaf so selfless to have somehow, even given the Warden supposed infertility, had a child with that Harpy, as the healer called the Queen? This hurt his head, his heart, that caused indecision of whether or not he had done the right thing, eating at him and wounding him. It seemed that this way only three had been hurt, and when in yet another hypothetical healing session he brought this up and was told absently that they were not the only ones. Confusion was quickly followed by guilt when it occurred to him that if Moira was harmed, so were others in Amaranthine. If he had stayed or taken that path, others would have been protected. Again, the choice was past, reminding himself to walk the path that was under his feet. Next time, he vowed, should this life be repeated, things would be different, he would save them both. There had to be a path between the two, where Zevran and Moira were happy, some path where the children were not harmed, where peace and ease were found.

Waking because there was something small and squirmy on him, Ferox cracked a lid to see Eleanor peering at him and tugging on his chin. Quickly he closed his eye and ‘snored’ which got a toddler grunt and tiny fingers poking at his mouth, along with further scooting. Then his nose was grabbed as though that would silence his ‘snoring’, which he couldn’t help but smile at a little through. 

“Dada-dada-dada,” babbled singsong at him, wiggling his nose back and forth with a strong baby-grip. 

For some reason the sound of his ‘name’ no longer made for so much pain inside. Not when there was such happiness to it, or when there was fear that quickly eased as soon as he scooped one or both of the girls up. _He_ could make the bad things go away for them. It was such a little thing that made every difference to them, a gesture that was so small, nothing really to him, but for them meant safety, security, and being loved. So ‘Dada’ and ‘Daddy’ were titles he wore and found that they did not weigh heavily on his shoulders the way ‘Warden’ or ‘Lord Cousland’ had.

Eleanor huffed, tumbling over his chest to sit on the pillow between his head and shoulder, poke-patting his forehead, “Dada!”

Opening his eyes, grinning, “Oh - did you want something, baby girl?”

She clapped excitedly having woken him up, “Dada!”

“Oh - you want a hug? Or are you hungry?” just making conversation as he reached back to hoist her, slowly letting her turn upside down as she squealed, before sitting her on his chest on her diapered rump. “Or you just want some attention?”

Eleanor rocked side to side like she was doing a dance, “Moo.”

“Cow says ‘moo’, very good. Do you know what a cat says? A cat says ‘meow’,” familiar story time for her, though everything said ‘moo’ apparently. “A dog says - sorry, hound - hound says ‘woof-woof’,” two mabari and Elissa who was playing with a doll echoed him. “Chicken says ‘bocka-bocka’.” Every time a sound was said, Eleanor ‘mooed’, happy to be participating. “Piggies say ‘oinky-oink-oink’ and the sheep say ‘baah-baah’.”

Zevran had taken to going out while Moira was down for the night, slipping from the window with Dassan. Ferox didn’t like it, he still had a hard time when his lover would go out on missions without him, even though he knew he was more liability than asset. He just wasn’t built for recon or infiltration, even with lightening his armours and splitting his sword. But he knew the Crows were doing what they had to do so that everything was in place and in order. So he clamped down on complaints and unease, keeping his attention focused on those who he could help. 

One night Zevran returned and went straight to the baths, but because of being on ‘girl duty’, Ferox couldn’t move, as he had three females plastered to him. It had been a bad night with nightmares, some of them so horrible they couldn’t wake up, though Dulsanaya had touched them, settling them down with whatever method it was she used. So he had to wait until his lover came back, freshly cleaned, but there was a split on his right cheekbone that had been deftly stitched closed, bruising blooming from it, and his bottom lip was swollen. But the satisfied gleam in gold eyes promised that whatever it was that had to be done was well worth it.

“We got him,” three words said softly just for his ears, as Zevran stretched, settling on the bed with a yawn.

Keeping his voice low and rumbling, “What about those from the ship?”

“The sailors and such?” head shifting to look at him. “After a talk with my compatriots we all agreed that they were not worth the resources of shipping them. So they were taken out onto the water and have been keelhauled on a half sunken ship and now dangle from the rigging. We will fire the ship when those we must take, pass by. To show them they are safe now.”

Slaves. But safe slaves. If there was ever a paradoxical statement, that was it. Even if it was true, or truer than most other statements. This was not his to fix, despite the desire to do so, and Ferox didn’t even know where to start. Repeating the reminder to concentrate on what had been given, there was still a yearning to do something. Another path, perhaps, but it was not his. 

“We’ll tell her in the morning,” firmly, knowing that closure would be important for her, and even the girls, that the bad nasties were gone and that they could never hurt them again.

Zevran reached across to cup his cheek, then his hand slid to alight gently on each of the dark-haired heads, “Yes.”

Before they left Kirkwall, the little healer pulled Zevran to a chair in a corner and crawled into his assassin’s lap, and, making herself comfortable, and lay her head on his shoulder. Ferox couldn’t think of what Zevran would need to have healed, but she was there for most of the day. Soft murmured questions asked in an odd combination of languages, he recognized some as Orlesian and of course Antivan and an odd word or two in elvish, however he was too busy playing with the girls to really pay attention. 

To help them prepare for what would greet them, Ferox began to tell stories of the city and the plantation, how things appeared from Earle’s viewpoint, the made up Ferelden rock farmer, comparing unfamiliar sights with what Moira, or in this case, what Earle would know. Although the stories were primarily for her benefit, he made certain to include some things to gain Elissa’s participation, when her attention was paid to part of the story. She ‘helped’ by barking when Horse had an important role, or ‘bocka’d like a chicken, or meowed like a kitten...whether the animal was important to the story or not, when she came over he would insert one just to include her. Eleanor just ‘moo’ed’ while beaming.

When Moira asked a question, ‘Earle’ would answer gravely in his rural Ferelden drawl. “Wa’ll, ma’am, I axed tha’ same question myself. An’ it turns out tha’ it’s jus’ too dang hawt.” 

It was the most laughter they had ever heard from her.

As they considered a land route return to Antiva, the healer recommended a set of dwarven sister ships that had large cabins, were well maintained, and whose crews were dwarven. Although the rocking motion of the ship would be the same for Moira and the girls, the crew would not be human or elven and therefore would be easier for the woman to be around. One of the ships could take them to Hercinia and then a second from there to Antiva City. The only thing she recommended, privately to both Ferox and Zevran, was to avoid any topic of interest to the Qunari, because they were someone to whom the captains ‘owed loyalty’ but it was made plain that wasn’t the exact words she was looking for. ‘Favours’ was another word tried, but it wasn’t an exact translation of whatever she was looking for either. She finally gave up and said that they were safe, just mind the conversation.

Dassan finally unveiled a crib, a rocking horse, and a small bed that would be a transition from crib to ‘big girl’ sleeping place. Both had been carved to have no sharp edges, everything round, with flowers and vines and fruits made in bas-relief, sturdy, but easily taken apart for transport. It was his gift to his ‘nieces’ who had grown attached to the quiet Crow who gave rides on his back, scuttling along the floor on all fours, or made cookies or little brown squares of cake like chocolate things called ‘brownies’, and figurines too big to fit into a small mouth for them to play with. Two small bows were also presented, ones fit for young bodies, but not for a few years yet, with the statement that the older Elissa had loved them a great deal, so on the off-chance these two might like them, he had made a set, along with forty blunt arrows. The little healer had modified each item somehow with a touch and deep concentration on her face, the wood taking on different colours that was not paint or native to the wood itself. 

One of the last nights, Dassan brought out a medium sized box of brownies, but the girls were in bed, and had said they were ‘special’ and for ‘grown ups only’. Now, Ferox didn’t like sweets overly, but for some reason Dassan’s were always tasty, and he had gotten rather fond of the brownies. So, upon hearing that this stash was just for him and Zevran - Moira too if she wanted one - he got excited and was told that there was a pan in the oven downstairs for some of the evening. At Dassan’s wink to Zevran, Ferox thought he should be worried, except he didn’t really care. 

The milk was ice-cold, the brownie on its plate with a drizzle of toffee over it a smell that should have been too sweet, but wasn’t, tempting him as he waited ‘patiently’ for Dassan to finish plating them up. As it was passed to him, “These are special. You will be very hungry in an hour, and likely a little ‘happy’. Do not worry, it is just ganja.”

Frowning at the treat, “Wait - that foul stuff you and Zevran smoke?”

“Yes, but it does not taste foul in the brownie,” Dassan smirked. “You know you want to eat it, so just do it. It will not hurt you. And Gaeaf is always amusing - making plans about sewers and paint with sand for grip.”

“Sand and sewers? He’s more damaged than I thought,” Ferox scratched his head.

“About where to put new sewers, how to improve them, something about ladders and walkways in them, with paint that has sand so that the workers do not fall in,” Dassan shrugged. “He likes building castles and cities on paper.”

“Maker. Although that sounds vaguely interesting, I suppose, if one was running a city...country.” Not his responsibility. “I think I’ll pass on that line of thinking.”

Zevran was already eating his and trying to convince Moira to take a bite from his fork, “Sounds bloody boring. Ingenuity is good, but, philosophy is better when high.”

“Well, Denerim doesn’t have any of that, so I could see where it might be interesting to some and I remember how you complained about the ‘indoor outhouses’.” Encouragingly, “Moira, it is really very good.” Sopping a bite in the toffee Ferox offered his fork to her.

“I like brownies, but -” worriedly.

His lover lay a gentle hand at the small of her back, “It will not be bad. You might get drowsy, but mostly it just makes everything feel slow without being bad.”

That was all the encouragement she needed and she leaned in to take the little bite, chewing it thoughtfully. “It does taste a little different. But good.”

Dassan flopped in ‘his’ chair, tugging Dulsanaya in his lap and kissing her temple, “Cath knows how to make them.”

“Shh - I will have to make them all the time!” making a ‘cross’ face at his counterpart. Grumbling, teasing with a wink, “Man says he does not like sweets - hah! The stash is empty half the time with a trail of crumbs in his direction. Or the taste of them on his mouth. Mph. Does not like sweets, what a crock.”

“I cannot help it if the children search my pockets for treats then offer kisses. Thus your trail and the taste.” Ferox found his best Master Wade voice, “Otherwise I’d have to work out more to maintain my girlish figure.”

Moira came back with a quick rejoinder, which she was doing more often of late, “I think the two of you _spar_ enough where that likely isn’t necessary...”

Laughter, “Touché, my dear. But how can I help myself? See,” noting, the snuggling into her own assassin, “the healer agrees. It’s impossible.”

Dulsanaya opened a green eye, _’ **Emma’mi** is very comfortable...’_

“Being the perfect piece of furniture has its perks,” Dassan extended a leg. “I get pretty girls in my lap. Just like a cat - seems a shame to dislodge them.”

The purring that came from the healer was nearly Zevran’s, _’You are silly, but this **da’sa** likes that.’ _Turning to to the lengthened version, _’Have another, this one will need some later too.’___

__Dassan snorted, pulled out his pouch and rolled one-handed one of his perpetual ‘blunts’, the other hand grabbing a brownie to give to her. “ _Em’lath’sa_ , eat it because it is tasty. Siphon it because it is fun,” kissing her crown._ _

__Breaking off bits to feed to Dassan, _’There is no purpose in the eating other than the flavour and even that can be experienced in the amulet, so she has said. This one may be called a Warden, but she does not have the appetites of such. Her hungers are other things.’__ _

__There was a rumble, and Ferox realized he was doing the same thing, because the Joining amulet, having been shown that was how she was communicating, was putting images in his head. Not on purpose clearly, but the words ‘hunger’ and ‘experienced’ and ‘amulet’ along with ‘other things’ got him wishing he had some way to communicate with Zevran the same way._ _

__The emerald eyes turned on him, _’Later, Tawdd. For now you must make the Mamae and the **da’asha’en** be at home and be welcome. This one has already had a word with Haf-cath as to what is needed. You will return in a year or two. Bring the answers from the Zama that this **asha** has requested and bring the Mamae with you. Do not worry, as there is no need for that. The brownies, they are tasty, yes?’__ _

__As usual, the Antivan way of speaking - briefly Ferox wondered, why would she be Antivan, Zevran identified her as only Dalish or elven - of asking a question at the end of a statement confused him. “Yes?”_ _

__They made sure to board as the sun rose in the sky, Dassan and Dulsanaya accompanying them, with Moira holding Ferox’s hand tightly. They managed, with only a few moments when he thought Moira might bolt. Ferox without thought kissed her hand, muttering soothingly like he would to a skittish horse, the habit picked up as he found time to work in the plantation’s stables. Fymataf, Medorid, Solun, Zarbon, Zamitie’s Poushid [fast darkness] and Anicada’s Solotinze [golden spear] never got skittish, or if they did, it wouldn’t be at such small troubles as being on the road or at the plantation, but the other horses did time to time. As soon as everyone was settled, the little healer went and embraced each of them tightly, taking the time to give last touches and give reassurance as well as her farewells._ _

__The journey by ship was not so bad, and was quicker than by road, even if he did remain cooped up more than he would have if it weren’t for the girls. At night they slept on spread out mattresses, huddled tightly into Ferox and Zevran, with Light and Horse at foot and head of the pile, creating a box of safety. As Moira relaxed, she was able to let the girls go one at a time out with Ferox or Zevran, until she mustered up the courage to go outside too as a group. After that it was just a matter of patience to get to Hercinia. Small steps each day, traversing the familiar, repeating what was known and expanding upon it. For him it was familiar territory as well, the same style, if not the same damages or issues or actions, and for each small success he felt almost atop the world._ _

__Moira asking a vendor for something in Antivan without shrinking back to hide in his or Zevran’s shadows, Elissa’s mix of both Common and Antivan, playfully ordering them to let her pour the tea because she was a big girl. Eleanor telling them that she needed a nappy change with gestures and a giggle rather than just parading around with a full load - it was silly, but he felt that this must be what being a parent and husband was like. It had at some point - days or weeks in, he couldn’t figure out that exact moment when - become real and not just a role to wear to comfort others._ _

__However he was very relieved to see the minarets of Antiva City. Ferox had missed home. Missed its smells that had been so blunted and were now as vibrant and rich as the colours had been the first time and every other time after. Pulling his rented horse to a stop, Ferox took a deep breath, eyes closed, and smiled. Another thing he hadn’t figured out when it happened, Antiva becoming home... Was it just a turquoise door or something else? He hadn’t realized just how much he missed it until he came back, the trip to Kirkwall was the longest he had ever been away. Normally if they travelled it was no further than Ostwick, though he was certain Zevran had an itch to go to Rivain. Something about reclining statues or other. Well, maybe he would be able to obtain access to more tropical trees and shrubs that could be taken indoor during the ‘inclement’ weather. He had come across something called a banana that had been shipped and it had made a very good topping for oatmeal and was even better in wheat flapjacks. Ferox wouldn’t mind having a dwarf variety if it was possible. Such things as new plants gripped him far more than a muddy old river or a reclining statue or ten._ _

__Zamitie’s crimson door came into view and they swung around to one of the small alleys that would lead to the back entrance and the stable. Ferox was giddy, knowing the Zama-mama would be pleased as pudding to have little ones running around, and she always welcomed someone with a good appetite. Of course there was also that serenity that she wore like a cloak, exuding comfort and acceptance for all, blunting even her occasional scolding._ _

__Swinging out of the serviceable mount’s saddle, he grabbed the girls from the pack baskets that had been attached to the back of the saddle, pushing the little sunshades back. Small arms wrapped around him and legs tapped at his waist, while Zevran helped Moira down from her horse. The contingent of Crows that had accompanied them from Hercinia quickly removed packs, setting them down and took the mounts with them._ _

__The _pintore_ had come out, a basket of scraps on her hip, dumping them in the compost trough, “Welcome home my boys. A meal is almost ready, some is on the table... But go in - make yourselves comfortable. _Gatito_ , help me with the packs. _Mu’poushu_ , you help your girls get settled.”_ _

__After a kiss to her cheek, Ferox escorted the Moira and the girls inside to take off boots and shoes and then to wash up. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as the hound went to Zama-mama to introduce Lightning. The mabari were at their most solemn; Lightning was such a peaceful calm creature, almost Horse’s opposite, who was having a hard time hiding his exuberance, his head cocking side to side, a foot raising impatiently then setting down before another would rise - obviously struggling to keep from prancing and bounding around. Light on the other hand was quietly nosing the hand held out to her, then rubbing her head into it._ _

__“That’s his mother?” it was said quietly as he waved for her to sit with Elissa - Eleanor had a death grip on him._ _

__“She didn’t give birth to him, no. But she is the one who raised Zevran, so, yes, she’s his mother, his Zama.” Ferox came over with the pot of tea and sat next to and began pouring. “I have taken to calling her Zama-mama and I have no doubt she will tell you if it is allowed as well,” laughing as he divulged Zamitie’s ‘name’. “She is nothing like my mother or Nan, but fills in their absences so I don’t miss them as much.”_ _

__“She’s very young looking,” Moira helped Elissa get a sip from the glass after adding a little sugar to it and blowing. “Very pretty. But she is so...tall...”_ _

__“Think she’s tall, you should see Anicada. Zevran’s daughter is even bigger,” as he scooted around on the cushions, plunking Eleanor in his lap who looked around quizzically. Pointing to things on the table, he said them for the benefit of all three, using in Common and Antivan. “ _Paella_ , soupy rice... Doesn’t sound very appetizing, but it’s very good. It is similar to the word for pan, both the Antivan and the Orlesian word, which helps me remember it.”_ _

__Zamitie came in with Zevran on her heels, “Oh - why are you not eating? No, no, _mu’poushu_ , see food, eat food. That is how it goes in the home. All of you must be hungry - eat!” _ _

__“Yes, Zama-mama,” a grin and wink to Moira, Ferox grabbed a plate from the stack and began to dish up small bites for Elissa and Eleanor and a sampling of other things for Moira, passing her the plates for Elissa and herself. Eleanor had a plate with a bits of flatbread torn into little pieces that she could gum around between bites spooned into her mouth._ _

__Zamitie answered questions whenever they were asked, urged food into all of them, even taking Elissa for a bit, praising her pretty hair, and basically adopting them all in one fell swoop._ _

__“Ohh, messy baby, you’re going to need a bath if you’re going to try that,” Ferox wiped off sticky rice from chubby cheeks as Eleanor chewed with great gusto using her newest teeth._ _

__Zevran otherwise kept up a soothing ramble of chatter, the cadence familiar, information overload without being overwhelming. All of it could be repeated later, but it was the sort of thing he did to ‘give an overview!’ that was one of those items that wound up just seeping into the brain. Mostly it just set Ferox at ease, the liquid smoke of that voice coiling around in his head. A longing for their comfortable mattress and an ear pressed to the steady heartbeat, didn’t matter what the voice said, it was the tone, the comfort the words brought._ _

__“ _Albitita_ came by the other day with some things from your trip and helped me set them up,” using the pet name for Zevran’s apprentice. “The crib and bed are very handsomely made, as are the toys. I made sure that everything was comfortable for you and your _mushus_ ,” smiling enigmatically at Moira. “You have your own space also, my home, is your home, and anywhere is open to you.”_ _

__Ferox, upon hearing the words ‘own space’, had the sense not to snort in disbelief, dance for joy in the hopes that this was actually true, or do anything other than to put another bite of rice into Eleanor, keeping his mouth firmly closed. Something niggled at him at the word ‘home’ from Zama’s mouth, but as he was listening to everyone around him, he didn’t pay any attention to the soft low voice in his mind._ _

__“Ah, yes, time to explore after the meal, hmn?” Zevran leaned forward, smiling._ _

__Hands full of child intent on washing her hair in...what was that she had grabbed from his plate? While Ferox opened the tightly closed hand to put what turned out to be a vegetable with a bit of rice in her mouth, and he hooked Zevran’s foot with his own. A bit of contact had with that beaming sun so he didn’t do anything more rash. The bare brown foot stroked his a little, pushing beneath his pant leg, and tucking the arch over his ankle, the necessary and needed connection established._ _

__“The place is plenty big enough for all of us,” Zevran tucked Elissa into his lap once she had been done being fascinated by Zama-mama’s hair. “Though the salle has weapons, so we will leave that door closed, hmn?”_ _

__“Why don’t you give Moira the tour and I’ll put the girls into a bath. That rice -” taking another look, “- couscous has got to go.” Wondering when the child on his lap had helped herself to that, probably while he was pouring more tea. “Food in the mouth, not on the head. Or in your dress,” wondering how she had filled a sock with Maker knew what. “Keep this up and you’ll be just like Uncle Fergus and have to eat in the kitchen when company comes - at least until you are twelve.”_ _

__Zamitie chuckled, “Then she will not have to go far, _mu’poushu_.”_ _

__Getting to his feet to collect Elissa, “Well, it wasn’t really a punishment for him, adult conversations were, according to Fergus, ‘boring’ and he got first pick of dessert and anything else he could trick Nan out of. I, on the other hand, would have rather listened to those boring conversations, having found them interesting. But then, siblings are, thankfully, different people.” Settling a girl on each hip, Ferox took them up the stairs to the large bath so they could play in shallow water and, without much disturbance to their play, become clean._ _

__With sponges as sea monsters and a couple of wooden handle brushes taking the part of boats, he kept a hand on Eleanor, washing when she wasn’t looking at him. Easily distracted by her sister and a barnyard story, ‘moo’, fussing about water in her eyes was kept to a minimum. Victoriously he got them redressed after their bath and found where Zevran was helping Moira unpack all their belongings. His lover gave him a quick kiss, urging him to go to their room and allow him to finish getting the girls down for a nap, Eleanor would be easiest, she always went straight to Moira’s breast for a few minutes to be put down, Elissa on the other hand would be more difficult._ _

__Handing off the girls with no small relief, Ferox went off in search of the, what was the words so often used, soft bedding? Didn’t matter, he really just wanted the mattress underneath, one that knew the way his hip was supposed to be, where he could sigh and straighten everything. Unfortunately, the sheets were clean and Zevran’s pillow wouldn’t smell like him yet. Ah well, nothing time wouldn’t fix. Especially if there was thirty minutes to five hours of sweaty time._ _

__Taking his time with his ritual, he tried to figure out what had asked for his attention earlier, but nothing leapt to mind. Deciding it was nothing, as exactly that called his attention, everything was neatly folded in the other in case it was needed, the modified Starfang easily at hand along with the sister blade. Much more useful those, balanced better with the lighter armours he was wearing, they were quicker than their first incarnation. Dryden shouldn’t be horrified as the work was well done. Settling in his spot, Ferox was grateful for a mattress that knew his back._ _

__Again he wished for the Chasind eye coverings, and here he thought they would only be useful in the sun and snow; good for reflections on the water, and now that he thought about it, probably on that sand too. Ferox supposed they could be made of wood, but bone was more traditional, probably because wood soaked up moisture. Hide...some of the first ones were made of hide a full mask to protect the face from the cold, a slit cut for the mouth and ones for the eyes...odd looking things. A fur ruff was attached so that it fit well against the hood of the parka, meshed, the long hairs almost interwoven. Impractical for the water or heat, but just the eye coverings would be good - to keep the headaches away._ _

__Zevran must have been delayed with Elissa’s nap, and Ferox couldn’t think of anything interesting enough to keep his attention awake. Arm stretching out into the empty place beside him, he gave up the struggle against heavy eyelids. It was quiet with nobody breathing his air or piled around him like so much cordwood. For a moment, he wondered where the trap was, but realizing that a brief respite was more than they had had in a while, he stopped looking for it. If there was a trap, it would bite soon enough. Why worry about what he could not prevent?_ _

__The sound of the lock clicking and a relieved sigh brought him groggily to the surface of wakefulness and out of his light doze. Clothes hitting the floor with whispers, the sheets were pulled back and warmth settled by his side, a mouth touched his, then his neck, the form scooting close enough to plaster, but it wasn’t crowding. Sleepily disappointed Ferox continued upwards, knuckling his eye socket, which wasn’t satisfactory at all so he switched to the heel of his palm, rumbling at the sensation of bare legs curling over his. The arm, which had been ‘saving’ Zevran’s place, held the one he could not yet see to him, hand skimming from hip to small of the back._ _

__“Missed you.” Rolling to his side, he was content with this little bit of peace, this bit of quiet warmth in his gloriously cool room._ _

__Zevran purred, “I must say I am sad to have found you asleep. You know how I hate waking you up, _querido_. Unless I am doing it on purpose of course.” _ _

__“Too many people and sleep is hard...that and dog breath, and nightmares, and kicks or heads to the groin, all bad things.” Yawning, “You were there.” Ferox thought of the girls settling in, “Moira’s okay here?”_ _

__“Mmn, well enough. She told me to make sure she had not ‘done any damage to the family jewels’, and if so to ‘kiss it better’,” snorting. “Of course she was blushing and half hiding her face in the pillow the whole time.”_ _

__Dryly, “All I can say is that it’s a good thing you have already had a child, and Horse seems to be in working order, because I have heard that Wardens can’t have children anyway. It doesn’t matter as it’s nothing I thought about until recently and that was when we were presented with two girls. Problem solved.” Ferox paused and squeezed Zevran, “Without sugar coating, what new favour is owed to the Crows for separating them from the other...slaves?”_ _

__Zevran traced one of the layered blue inlays on Ferox’s chest. “News spread that there were babies aboard, _querido._ The Slavers’ Guild was who backed this entire endeavour, and there are rules and regulations for the buying and selling of slaves. There are also laws that give slaves some modicum of protection. At least in Antiva. Rivain’s slave trade is different as they regularly deal with Tevinter, but they are somewhere between the rights Antivan slaves have and the complete lack of them that the Tevinter slaves have. However, the common rule is that nothing under the age of seven is sold. Partly this has to do with...practicalities. At the age of seven someone might begin to learn a trade, so on, so forth. That is not to say that there are no child labour camps but they are...frowned upon.” _ _

__Well he supposed that was good news, but it still wasn’t the news he asked for. “And?”_ _

__“That two children managed to survive, veritable infants, solely through the efforts of their mother - well, frankly there was...no one would buy Moira. She would be useless due to whatever was done to her. The girls are also considered damaged, no matter how well they have been healed. The Slavers’ Guild are not evil people, _amora_.” Zevran lay his head on Ferox’s shoulder, on his back he stared at the ceiling. “Profit driven? Oh yes. Cruel? No. Slaves are commodities. Slaves are useful. If one purchases a horse for ten sovereigns, are you going to beat it? No. If you purchase a slave for anywhere from three to three hundred sovereigns - are you going to beat it without cause? No. Slaves are an investment, and you treat investments relatively well... From the practical point of view, no one will want Moira or the girls. They are safe. From the ‘moral’ point of view, no one will harm them due to the fact it would look bad... What it boils down to is that there would be a public display of kindness over who took them in. We solved the problem and prevented some feuding. Ignacio had half a mind to order me to take them according to Thiago when we met up with him in Hercinia. But his hands are full and he is no fool either. To be blunt - they are my payment for this contract.”_ _

__“They’re also hostages aren’t they?”_ _

__“We are all hostages, _amora._ All of us. Fate, the Maker, the Guild, time. The Wardens... We are all hostages. It is learning to go on in spite of that that makes us the victors,” he wove their hands together. “It is not a favour but merely a change from coin of hard currency to that of several lives deemed...somewhat useless as anything other than symbols and a way to regain some polish. Honestly, it would not matter who had taken them, so long as someone did. This way they can be assured of stability rather than ten or fifteen years of one place and whoever their guardians were getting tired or bored with their upkeep.” Zevran could see that he wasn’t entirely believing it and huffed, “For all intents and purposes _they_ owe _us_ a favour now.”_ _

__Finally finding the bit of sand in the corner of his eye, he was not following exactly, “Umm, which ‘they’? I think I got lost.”_ _

__“The Guild, _amora._ We took a problem and solved it in excess of what I was contracted to do, and recouped almost half the losses that the Slavers’ Guild accrued due to the health of the slaves brought back. They were expecting to recoup _nothing_ , or virtually nothing,” his lover tapped a cadence on Ferox’s hip. “Supplies, bribes, manpower - these things cost money. The Slavers’ Guild handed over a very, very large sum of money to have their ‘honour’ restored as the situation as it stood was very bad for business. So they were willing to pay through the nose and absorb massive loss of capital to expunge, as well as remove a rival, the taint to their business. That there were a few hundred slaves to sell...well. They were _not_ expecting that at all, or not much. Or any decent quality. While the Slavers’ Guild took a hit, they did not take...a massive hit. Their being so pleased makes the House of Crows pleased. This then extends to Ignacio, whose men, meaning myself, and those of _La Diabolla_ \- even if they were borrowed, receive payment. My payment was not just payment, but a removal of a potential problem. So I cashed in on that favour, and have asked supplies and a handful of skilled workers to be sent to Ferelden to further aid in reconstruction.” He slid over him to drape his body over Ferox who had obligingly returned to his back. “And everyone who walked out of the hold is alive and healed. The refugees are already sold and settling into their roles. No uprisings. No difficulties. Nor were any Crows hurt. It was as close to a perfect ending as any could ever hope to receive. Now is _that_ clear enough?”_ _

__Settling back into the mattress, “Perfectly clear. Thank you.” Ferox lifted his head to kiss his sun’s forehead, “You are very thoughtful.”_ _

__“Hmmn, yes, yes I am - can I have a treat now that I have been a good boy?” teasing._ _

__Thinking through the thinning fog of sleep for a moment, “I would perform a rendition of the infamous Zevran scamper and rustle up some gelato down at the square even if it is high noon outside and not fit for man or beast or even a barbarian from Ferelden who would have to roust said merchant. Or I would just simply worship the ground my sun walks on, should he so desire.”_ _

__Zevran laughed, that throaty and guttural sound that was magic and warmth, stronger than any spell, “Oh, gelato is good, but worship sounds a bit much. I would have to work much harder to earn that... Perhaps some middle ground could be had?”_ _

__“You can have whatever you like, Love.” Rumbling, “Tell me what you desire.”_ _

__Lips found the corner of his jaw, “I would happily consider having you as a treat, _corizon._ ”_ _

__“Then you have been snacking on treats for many years, some might even consider you spoiled at this point,” rumbling as a hand slid over his chest, swirling over a hip and back up again. “I however would argue that you are not spoiled and are merely well appreciated and cared for.”_ _

__The sun gave a throaty laugh before long, oil slicked fingers grasped his cock, the thumb rubbing lightly and methodically along the ridge, which caused him to suck in a breath. “Some things become sweeter with spoilage, _amante._ ”_ _

__Trying to remember the names, “Soapy apples, those strange ones that turn black. They get sweeter.”_ _

__“Bananas, plantains, mmn, fried in honey and sliced over oatmeal,” was the countering hum, the grip on his manhood tightening so the head felt tight and swollen, sensitive to the rolling, sliding touch over it. “Certain grapes are not harvested until fungus spreads over them, so the wine becomes that much sweeter.”_ _

__“Or...or the ones that get frozen first.” His hips had a mind of their own, tensing, threatening to rise._ _

__Maker, oatmeal was going to have a whole new meaning. ‘Would you like oatmeal for breakfast, Ferox?’ ‘Um, no thank you, I have to go back upstairs. Now if only I could walk.’ ‘Oh that is no problem, Kay-ree-doo, I shall just haul you over my shoulder.’ A whimper crawled out of this throat. Last time they had a few minutes like this, they were aboard ship and were in something nearly the size of a wardrobe, probably a dresser drawer._ _

__Moist lips were dragging over a nipple, the inner lining smooth compared to the faintly thicker exterior, spreading small electric shocks through him in time to the slow strokes over the rapidly sensitized flesh of his tip. “Plums,” the word mumbled against him as Zevran worked his way down, until a hairless cheek rubbed over his thigh, tongue flicking out. “Peaches, each get sweeter when bruised, mmn? Firm flesh made -” the underside of his sun’s tongue brushed and twisted with the playing fingers, “tender.”_ _

__Gasping, “Brandied...peaches,” followed by a whine. “I want some...want you.” Food and Zevran - he could go for that. Finger food, sopping, fresh fruit, just plucked from bushes, trees, vines, buffed and cleaned, and cut up, so the sections - any section, any bite, any morsel - could be rubbed or, or however food and Zevran would go. And everything still smelled better and tasted better, more flavour..._ _

__Shivers at the thought of the combination coursed over him, were magnified by the strong sucking, as though juice from a perfectly ripe fruit were being sucked free. It had been too long - earlier that afternoon wouldn’t have been soon enough - hands tangled in the golden locks as Ferox remembered again that air was a good thing. Promises that his first born pups would be given to Zevran, as well as any other worldly goods he currently had or might run across, were drug from him hoarsely, so long as his sun didn’t stop. Turgid and thick with pooled blood, his manhood was lavished, teased and kept on the brink, until strong legs framed his hips, taking him in with mutual groans. A golden hand stroked the thick elven length as it pulsed, while Ferox rocked against the slow rolling grind of Zevran’s hips, hands at his waist. Then pulling him down, Ferox wanted to taste the light, to hold it tighter, keep it closer, forever._ _

__A plaintive whine crawled its way free of his throat as his body rebelled, giving in and the heat burst over his skin. Clutching at his elf’s back and waist, Ferox stilled, panting into that perfectly scented skin, even still wondering in a faint flitter of semi-coherent thought how the little healer had given him the gift of smell. Everything, every nerve, memory, sensation, sound, taste, smell, seemed brighter these days, a sharper affliction of good things lashing at his mind, holding him to the mast of the ship of life. Whimpering as Zevran rolled, groaning, his body oversensitized as his elf hungrily rode him like he was a slightly fractious horse. Any other time the image would have elicited a laugh, but with warm breath panting against his cheek, murmured words of want and hunger with that desperate edge, ones with their own promises, Ferox could only keep lifting his hips in time to Zevran’s rocking impalement on his cock and babble, ‘Love, Love, Love’._ _

__All tangled up, breathing each other’s air, their noses touching, each word a feather light kiss from his sun’s lips to his, “Mmn, I should be a good boy more often if that is my sweety-treat.”_ _

__Groaning, “Sure you didn’t just want gelato?” Tired or not, sated for next moment or two or not, Ferox couldn’t stop the laughter that shook him, ices of any flavour would have to wait until after a nap...oh and then he wanted pineapple, and mango, and oh! - that lime one, and a bite of whatever spiced one Zevran would get and...and... Oh, yes Horse would want one, can’t forget him, had to have a bite before handing it over though. Hrm, wonder what kind Lightning would like? With cones dancing in his head and the sun in his arms, he drifted._ _

__Ani came by, excited to meet the new additions, and came with a cart of presents. “Aie, mushus!” she was laughing and instantly folded herself to the ground, arms open, waiting for the girls to suss her out, which happened quickly because a hound or two may have given them a nudge. “Such pretty eyes,” a long finger bopped a skipping beat from their hairlines down their noses._ _

__“Dat’s Ayes-uhs no-oooh’s!” corrected a cross-eyed Elissa, looking at Ani’s finger, puckering her lips. “Dat’s Nor’s no-oooh’s. No eye!” [That’s Elissa’s nose. That’s Eleanor’s nose. Not eye.]_ _

__“A nose? You are right!” Ferox watched as Ani used the tip of her finger to wiggle Elissa’s nose back and forth. “That is a nose! That is your nose. Where are the eyes? Can you show me?”_ _

__“Moo!” Eleanor piped up. “Pow. Pow - moo!” [Moo - Cow, Cow moos.]_ _

__“No moo, eye.” Stretching out an index finger, “No poke’um eye. Dat’s owie. Ayes-uhs no make’uh Nor qu-why. Say bad Ayes-uhs,” nodding solemnly. [No poke eye. That’s owie. Elissa no make Eleanor cry. (Mama) says, ‘Bad Elissa’.]_ _

__“You are good,” Ani reassured, cuddling both girls. “Poking eyes does hurt, so it is not a thing we do.”_ _

__Moira was pressed against his side, watching like a hawk, and he wondered if she would ever be able to fully relax again, but for all her vigilance, she was calm. Her voice soft, “She doesn’t look anything like Zev.”_ _

__Kissing her crown, “And why should she? Elissa’s yours.” He might be thought to be slow, but he knew exactly what she was talking about. She meant Ani, although she didn’t say, however he was reassuring that her babies were fine, that they were hers, nobody was going to take them away from her, and they’d all pounce on anybody who tried to. Like a pack of wolves they’d tear them apart._ _

__“Of course they look like me,” Moira huffed quietly. “No, that girl doesn’t look like Zev, she looks like Zama, but not like him.”_ _

__Zevran sailed in from the back where the cart of goodies had been taken to. “Ah, that is what I kept telling her when she was a baby, but no, she had to get part of her mother’s mulishness, hmn?” His lover winked at them, then sat down with the girls, “ _Mijas!_ Is there some sugar for Papi?”_ _

__The Dust Wolf laughed at him, head thrown back, the laugh the same exact one Zevran gave out so often, before leaning over to kiss his cheek, “Your teeth will be rotted afore you bald, Papi.”_ _

__“Oh! _Now_ I see it,” Moira sounded surprised. _ _

__He rumbled a chuckle, “She sounds just like him, eh? That’s what I thought.” There were other mannerisms that reminded him of the sun as well, perhaps Ani was fire, or a reflection of that sun. Not that silver mirrors did much for actual reflections, mainly just reflecting the bright light. Not that he looked in mirrors much these days, or ever really did, least not since Fort Drakon and what Zama showed him at his first visit. “They have the same profile though, nose, chin, cheeks. And don’t get in their way when it comes to ginger stuffed olives, they’ll fight each other for the last one.”_ _

__Her nose crinkled, “I don’t like those, they can keep them. The garlic ones are okay, the others are kind of...strange tasting.”_ _

__“Mmm garlic. Wonder when lunch is? I should probably help,” so he could find out where everything tasty was hiding and ‘cause he usually ate more than his share._ _

__Moira was clearly torn between wanting to watch over their girls with a new person, and helping. “Um...” Her fingers tugged at his shirtsleeve lightly, clearly uncertain. “Ferox...do -”_ _

__“Shoo-shoo, this is the waiting area,” Zama-mama came out with rolled eyes and flicking fingers even as she leaned down to kiss Ani, Zevran and the babies. Somewhere between scolding and laughter, “Out, out, off with you! Be civilized and make some tea!”_ _

__“Do I think I need help? Yep. Do I think they’re fine? Absolutely. We’ll be right in the kitchen, and can hear everything.” Arm still around her, Ferox swaying ‘danced’ with her towards the other room. “No worries, just like the little healer said. Now - ” intent on distracting Moira and obeying Zama-mama, “ - What kinda tea should we make? Zev’s nose pinches when I make mint, even if he seems ta like the bee balm one. There’s the one made from the tea bushes, it smells really good with that orange fruit in it.”_ _

__Ferox guided Moira away gently while the others were being silly and making the girls giggle and squeal. Water already bubbling away, the rolling tea and coffee set of drawers was pulled free of the larger standing table as he and Moira rooted through it, rediscovering each smell himself, and that was magical in its own way. Sniffing in the container, even the ones they weren’t using, he reflected that nothing smelled quite like the freshly roasted coffee beans, or the freshly dried sprigs of tea, or the withered little bundles of the oxidized leaves. Moira was distracted by all the new smells too, asking him endless questions after starting off slow. Really, this was more Zevran’s forte, but sometimes no matter how patient his Crow was, he could be on the short side. Which is why he really tried not to ask a question more than once. Not everyone had a memory that could absorb everything so quickly. Trying to think of somebody who did, Ferox amended that nobody had a memory like Zevran’s, at all._ _

__“Um, tea is good with biscuits and fruit...and cheese. Dontcha think, Moira?” Hoping that somebody else was hungry. Ferox was always hungry, but if somebody else was too, then he didn’t look like he was always eating. Moira could generally be counted on to be hungry, after all she was nursing both girls and she had to keep up her strength._ _

__“I liked that cucumber thing Zev made,” said in a strange sucking in as she breathed in the smell of what he was certain was the orange blossom and row-boat tea._ _

__Cucumber thing? Ferox had to think about that, “Urmn...that soft cheese was with it, right?” It was practically permission, or agreement, or a ‘yes’ that she was hungry too, diving into the chill chest, he pulled out sliced fruits and cheese, and - sniffing something that smelled like the color green - “Is this it?” setting the cheesy looking thing that smelled like cucumbers on the counter before pulling out some grapes and sliced meats, never knew if somebody needed something a little heftier. Some sliced bread would go good with that - _Mmmm sandwiches_ \- ducking his head back in for some lettuce._ _

__Some loaf of dark bread that had honey in it somehow was cut into thick slices while Moira slathered on some of the soft cheese and piled cucumber slices on top of it and roasted crushed almonds with lemon wedges that had the rinds peeled off. “What’s winter like here? Does it ever get cold? It’s so...hot all the time, and everyone is so dark, and there’s so much food, and all these _colours_ , and tastes, and...” She paused, “Is there any rolled oats? I...I think I want griddle cakes.”_ _

__Thankfully he didn’t ask if she was going to make cookies, because she _always_ made cookies - he was a lucky man, cookies for breakfast nearly every day, dipping them in tea or coffee or the occasional glass of milk. “Rain. Winter rains, they said it was mon-soons and that the rains filled up the reservoirs. Rain ‘round home meant that planting was next or you just got harvests in and had to finish what didn’t spoil in the rain or needed a bit of frost. Strange place, but I haven’t been here that long either. Zama did say it gets colder than the last two winters I’ve had here, though there was a nasty ice storm last year. The roads all got slick and iced, and pretty much no business was open for a week except the bakers.” Not parka and long furry mittens weather, but at least double tunic and socks - for most of the winter at least. _Cloak weather_ , finding himself staring off into the sitting room... _I like cloaks, very, very much_. Shaking off the daydream, “Don’t worry, little bottoms will be kept warm, and yours too,” a grin he couldn’t help but see found its way on her face, as he found some of the ingredients she might need._ _

__Moira laughed as she darted to the pantry, and came out with a bottle of Zevran’s _ron miel_ , a bowl, and a goodly portion of dried fruit. “I see you, good ser, and I raise you candied fruit.”_ _

__“Ooo! Have I said that you’re my favouritest person within...oh say two or three feet of me?”_ _

__Her smile was small, but sunny and bright, her face was still a little too thin, it was filling back out. Looking at her hands, as they tossed the fruit, sugar and liqueur together to sit for awhile, they had lost their knobby appearance. “You just want me to make you oatmeal cookie cakes for dinner.”_ _

__“Moira, you know the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach an’ I’m just much, much easier than most,” laughter was so plentiful here. He remembered days in Ferelden where it would have shattered him into tiny irreparable shards, but here was where it lived and played._ _

__“You’re as bad as Edric when he was -” her smile faltered and she ducked her face. “Growing boys eat a lot. All day, all the time - and it’s like being a Warden isn’t much different,” Moira soldiered on through, even as she stuffed half that cucumber sandwich in her mouth. “Or breastfeeding, if I keep going like this, I’ll be as big as a house, but the girls make me super hungry!”_ _

__“Big as a house? I think they’re gettin’ faster an’ fatter an’ you’re gonna be going two ways to Thursday just ta keep an eye on ‘um both, gonna need a reserve. An’ no I didn’t say nuthin’ about your rear, you’re just fine,” not looking at said behind that he _had_ mentioned earlier, Ferox set platters of what was always in the house, heaps of cheeses, sliced meats, fruit - lots of that, bread...not pretty, but plentiful. Let Zevran do the eye catching displays, if he felt like it. There was a reason Ferox wasn’t making earrings and delicate wired necklaces anymore._ _

__Some of the cooked vegetables from the evening before were methodically pulverized into paste for the girls. Certainly they could eat some grownup food, but it was easier, in terms of reliability of belly filling, to use vegetables and roots that way - less choking hazard. Eleanor still hadn’t gotten all her teeth in yet, though they were sprouting quickly. Ferox didn’t let himself think over how few there had been in both babies’ mouths. The girls would likely be a little more stunted due to the hardships they had gone through, and Moira’s body would be more susceptible to illness and brittle bones. Silently he was grateful, so very grateful, that the green eyed healer had intervened on their behalf, even if she was looking for, or thought they were somebody else. He didn’t, wouldn’t, _couldn’t_ bear thinking about just how bad it could have gone. And their presence was like chopped up fish buried in already fertile ground, feeding and giving that special essence that made the green things grow even more vibrantly. _ _

__Not much later they were all seated round the table, happy family conversations, ones that made him dwell on what was good and look away from the bad. Always looking away from something, some might say it was what he did best - at least he was good at it. Keeping a hand on Zevran, or more accurately his love’s foot up his pant leg, Ferox was grounded._ _

__Elissa had taken to Ani, playing word games endlessly through dinner - fingers, ears, nose, eyes, mouth, and foods - all were named in singsong fashion. And after dinner, they - meaning himself, Moira, Zevran, Ani, the hounds, and the girls - were all rolling around on the floor, Zevran having brought down a few layers of yurt flooring for an impromptu playspace. There must be something in his love’s blood, for his ‘daughter’ had weaseled her way in just as deftly, putting Moira at ease._ _

__“Moira, it is a thing said, in letter, that Maestro Ignacio says for you to visit a place to get clothes, as a gift,” a rolled piece of parchment was withdrawn from a tube, opened, and displaying concise handwriting. “As welcome to your new home, yes?”_ _

__Moira looked at it, accepting the letter hesitantly, “I...I don’t know how to...read this. Um...those are a lot of letters.”_ _

__Ferox cleared his throat, leaning over, “May I?” She nodded and passed it to him and he gave it a once over, tilting it so Zevran, whose head was in his lap, could check it for hidden meanings. To him, it looked fairly straightforward, so after getting a subtle nod from his Crow, who had a sleeping Elissa draped over him, Ferox read it aloud. “‘To the Arainai and Algere family, I am happy to hear of your newest family members. Miss Moira, and her daughters - welcome to Antiva, I hope that the weather becomes agreeable to you soon, it is an adjustment -’ Hah, he’s good at understatement, ‘- but one that will do you a good turn. So, in light of the increased family, I wish to extend and add to the family stipend. If no one has done so already, then please allow me to do this small thing for your comfort. There are several seamstresses, and a few shops that cater to women and children that I have accounts at. Feel free to gain yourself some comfortable attire, and feel no concern over it. Should you need, please, call upon myself, or my household - Francisco Ignacio Zappetera.’”_ _

__“Well, isn’t that nice. Sa’id’s things may be plentiful, but nothing other than scarves and kerchiefs tied together will fit the girls right now.” Delicately drawing attention without pointing out that they were both rummaging through the closets, “And as much as I have to admire his taste, the clothes are cut for a man. A dress or two would be cooler and you wouldn’t have to wrap a belt about two or three times. Oh! Can we go to that smelly store...” Ferox didn’t actually like shopping, well, no, he did, but it had to be special sorts of things, and generally he liked walking through the bazaars and open markets, not to buy anything, but to experience. And of course stopping for gelato or roasted vegetables or teas or churros or any of the many different foods that were apparent with every fifth step taken. But Moira would like it, especially if it was in something more quiet, like an actual brick and mortar shop, so he talked it up as Nan would say. “I mean the perfume girl’s shop. I could probably stand there all day now, and Moira’s definitely going to need creams to keep her skin from drying up. And I won’t complain too much if there’s a platter of churros somewhere in there. Then a day or two later we could stop in and see him, probably feels real bad ‘bout what happened.”_ _

__Zevran explained quietly while rubbing Elissa’s back, a finger twirling around a fluffy curl, “Ignacio lived in Ferelden for twenty something years, and a man like that does not stay somewhere when they have other options unless they find the place worthwhile, hmn? For a Crow Master, he is a very soft touch. Truthfully, if he had not had other pressing matters, I would not have been surprised to see him at Denerim that night.” There was an amused hum, “Actually, I would be more surprised if he was not there anyway. He never did say when he left Ferelden exactly. But we saw no sign of him, which does not mean he was not there truth be known.”_ _

__Ferox pointed out, “The Alienage was pretty darned well armed, and there weren’t many of ‘um. Most had gotten out some way - that redheaded girl didn’t say how, not that we had a lot of time to ask... We didn’t see a lot of people though, Wade, the dwarf Gorim...don’t tell me he couldn’t fight, all those weapons and I saw the size of his arms, and even that Captain or whatever he was, in charge of the City Guards. With the fires we couldn’t even get to most of the town...city...town.” Compared to Antiva City, anything less was a town._ _

__Moira shivered, scooting closer to him unconsciously, voice going down almost to a cracked whisper, “It was good someone like him was there.”_ _

__“Hrm.” Ferox hadn’t thought about any of them at the time, he was a little too busy juggling darkspawn and a bit of a dragon. In retrospect, he was glad they were there, “Way I see it, everyone who was there...was there.” The question was, was their presence actually helpful? “I mean, if he helped out. I’m definitely not saying that right... It’s why I’ll never give a speech...’cept that one time, an’ don’t know what got into me...righteous indignation and probably more than bit of my mother... Anyway, I’m glad too,” shutting up._ _

__Even though the old Crow sent them out on what felt like snipe hunts at the time. They weren’t, but that was another story. Ferox wrapped an arm around her shoulders hugging her. Hopefully, she’d go shopping, enjoy herself, show off to Ignacio, make their debt to the Crows a little deeper or a little shallower - he wouldn’t balance those books and left that math to Zevran - and he’d get a bite of everybody’s gelato and be as happy as he could that day, getting everything out of it that he could._ _

__Why was Moira seeking reassurance from him? Was it just because he looked like her husband? Probably sounded like him too, speaking the common tongue without an odd accent. Would she seek to replace the man with him, like the girls had? Ferox felt bad about that - not for the children, they were too young to know better, but for the woman, the wife left behind - she knew the difference. It was a game of pretend he was familiar with, if he didn’t think too terribly hard, like off to the side a bit, he could pretend that Highever was just like it always was and if, when he returned, it would still be that way. Actually going there made that lie to himself a lot harder to believe - easier to believe that trip didn’t happen - but the little story of how everything was at home was still playing out somewhere in his mind. Maybe that was how Moira got through the ship? Edric would save them and get them off the ship to sail for home, and he would be patient and gentle, playful and undemanding, and most of all - present. He guessed that in the dark everybody needed a turquoise door and a story to tell themselves._ _

__“Other gifts of welcome come from other groups, and the Slavers’ Guild also gives things and tidings of your countrymen and where they have settled. Four buyers have claimed those from the ship, all by the mountainside, where rice and grains are grown, so that they may be able to see each other,” Ani pulled out her pipe, nodding her approval as she packed it. “The royal household has made the purchase for all of them in total. For the king’s land, they have the greatest number. Two of the princes have others, the queen has them on her land as well. Hard work, yes, but no more difficult than what they knew before, yes? Kept all in the family. I have patrolled out that way, and the land is good, the slaves look well fed, and only a few seemed to have born whippings for infractions. At festivals, they get time off, and the queen’s land and the prince ah...Faizal? They give two days off every eight. So I have been told. The Slavers’ Guildmaster has said to Salvail, who says to me, what I now say to you - that you are welcome to come and speak and see your countrymen any time you wish it, and that Guildmaster Salvio is at your service.”_ _

__Moira’s fingers dug into his arm, “What?”_ _

__Zevran sighed, shooting Ani a look. “We had not told her of that. But yes, that is good news at least.”_ _

__“Oh, apologies,” Ani went pale. “It was a thing I did not know, I thought news would bring comfort.” The pipe was set aside, and Ani prostrated herself, “My shame is without end.”_ _

__“They’re...s-s-slaves?”_ _

__Ferox wanted to deny it, to say that it was just indentured servitude for the rescue, and that eventually they could go home, or be counted as free men. It was one of those things that would plague him when he gave his mind a fraction of a moment to think about it, swamping his little dingy. It could be dressed up in all sorts of pretty words, but it didn’t really change anything. Property was still property. Even if the slaves at La Villa Bonita were treated better than even the working man and woman of his own parents’ land - the fact was, was that they were owned, even if it was by another who said he was also a slave. That they could be sold. Killed. Beaten. Starved. Their families could be forcefully separated at another’s will. It wasn’t right, but it wasn’t Ferelden and he didn’t have the means to fix it._ _

__Zevran looked at him for a moment, and probably saw what he lacked and that he wasn’t going to be much help. “If my plantation could have accommodated them all and I had the collateral to afford them, I would have bought them. But even Ignacio could not come up with that much coin. Likely the price the royals paid for your fellows was five times their technical worth. That is not comforting, I am aware of that.” Elissa was gently shifted to the side so Zevran could scoot and take Moira’s face in his hands, holding her cheeks gently while she still clung to Ferox’s arm. “The truth here is sad to someone born free, but coating it in sugar and chocolate does not make it any different, so I will not. The only reason anyone was saved from what happened on that ship, _bonita_ , is that the Slavers’ Guild does not tolerate anyone ruining their image. Yes, they have an image to uphold. One that says that they provide healthy, sturdy, workers for a price. Be those workers beautiful or highly skilled, then the more they are worth. If they are just limbs and a back to work a field, then that is what they are. Work has a price. Life has a price. Even in Ferelden. The only true difference I ever saw between Orlais, Ferelden, and Antiva was this - what we call those who do the work. In Orlais, they are serfs. In Ferelden, they are peasants. In Antiva, they are slaves. Each country binds people to the land they are working on. To the city or town they work within. To the skills they have. There is no true upwards or horizontal mobility. Ferelden provides an illusion of it. Orlais beats the dream out of it. And Antiva is honest about it.”_ _

__Moira was wide-eyed and shivering. “But in Ferelden we’re free!”_ _

__“Are you?” came the question. “Were you? You did washing, cleaning, sometimes would take on a cooking job at a tavern or inn. But did it get you upwards? No. You were still stuck and tied to Amaranthine as surely as if someone had a piece of paper that said you were property of Amaranthine’s lord. Perhaps you and Edric could have saved enough coin to move to Denerim. Or Redcliffe or Highever or West Hills. And then you would be in the same position, but lower, as you would have had to start over again, and again for each move. For the average person, the average _peasant_ with no valuable skills like reading, writing, math, healing, some skills that take effort to truly learn - you were no better than a slave in Ferelden. The truth is, in this world, the people on top can do whatever they want. The people that are in the middle can move around at will, but everyone else is the backs and legs that support the rest, and are treated as such.” _ _

__His sun’s voice was gentle for all the hard words being said. “Being smart or pretty can gain you an edge when you are on the bottom if you are careful and figure out how to use those tools, but would not better your life, not exactly, but it would purchase some small step upwards for your children. Because of what happened, there is no paper that says you are owned. You and the girls are free. You have escaped not just the servitude and slavery of Ferelden, but of Antiva as well. Others may not have, but they also did not suffer as you have. That is not to say that they did not suffer, but they did not suffer so heroically. And there is one thing Antiva is a sucker for - heroes. You went above and beyond the call of motherhood, what most any other mother would have done, what any normal mortal would have, and as terrible as it is, this is your reward. You are battered, scarred, bruised, but you and the girls are alive. Ferox and I will fight tooth and nail to ensure each of you have what you need and want from life, because he and I are slaves as well. Him, to being a Warden and every burden the Blight put upon him, and the shortened life, the curse it comes down to. Me, because I was born in a whorehouse to a slave and then bought by the House of Crows. He and I will _always_ be slaves at our core being. Neither of us ever had any choice but to become what we are. But you? You represent our freedom and the dream of it. You can decide what you want to become, Elissa and Eleanor can as well.”_ _

__Ferox opened his mouth and closed it. Is that what happened in that little transaction in the kitchen, sealed later with a bloody cup? Was that why he was so angry and distressed at the time? It really was, wasn’t it? He was bought and sold like any common piece of property. His life was what his parents had wanted, and the price was servitude to some ‘higher calling’, complete with chains and a collar around his neck - which left him wanting to take it off as soon as possible, a visible mark, even if what was in his blood was hidden, except to those who knew where to look. Ferox was going to be sick, needed air, needed a walk, needed to hit something...probably just needed to crawl up in a hayloft and cry like a child. But none of it was new, it was all things that happened a long time ago, and just finding out right now this second didn’t change how old it was or that he couldn’t change any of it. Why hadn’t he seen it, sitting so baldly in front of him until Zevran said the words and pointed it out? Was he really that blind? Yes, he was, and it wasn’t all that comforting to have the wool pulled from his eyes. Zevran probably didn’t know that he hadn’t thought of it like that or thought that he’d already made his peace with it._ _

__Zevran’s lips pressed to her forehead, “Peace, do not be afraid of it. The other Fereldens, they will have lives that are hard, but likely better, and their children will be better educated than them. And if they prove quick and smart, then they will be elevated beyond simple backs and arms doing work in the fields, while in Ferelden, they would have been kept the same. It is the Antivan way. In a few generations, many of the smartest ones who worked the hardest, will no doubt have their own businesses, even if they are slaves, money that is their own, and some of them will even be free.”_ _

__He couldn’t let himself turn green, couldn’t excuse himself to be sick, couldn’t up and r-u-n-n-o-f-t, couldn’t let his love know that he’d gutted him, or rather pointed out that his entrails had been spilling out all along. Had to be an example of someone who’d known all along and accepted his state knowingly and gracefully - before today Ferox didn’t know he was living with anything other than his own cowardice and unwillingness to take on difficult tasks._ _

__“But you, you sweet Moira...anything you want to do. Anything you want to be - short of royalty, and even that could _probably_ be arranged, but it would entail marriage - is open to you. You only have but to learn the skill, yet the schools and universities are open to you. Any guildhall is open to you, the Slavers’ Guild, the House of Crows, the Royal House, myself - any of us will vouch, just because it is something promised. In their case it is a grand gesture to curry favour with the populace, in my case, it is because I want you to have any and all choices open to you.” Her face relinquished, Zevran stood slowly, “But it is up to you whether you can accept the overall status of yourself and the rest of your people. I can only lay out the facts and comparisons, ultimately, it is up to you how you decide to see it and feel about it.” _ _

__“I just want the girls to be safe,” Moira’s voice broke and she got up, darting away, crying._ _

__Pushing himself to his feet, Ferox’s legs felt rather rubbery, like after that fight with Flemeth or the Andraste dragon, a battle he was concerned they would not win, “Ani, get up, it’s our failure to tell her, not yours for not knowing something we didn’t say. Please stay,” afraid that she would leave still thinking that the error was hers. Wishing he was heading another direction entirely, he followed Moira, willing to take any beating she needed to hand out and afraid that there’d be only tears and things he couldn’t explain either._ _

__She was in her room, face in a pillow, one of those despicably comfortable ones Zevran liked so much, stuffed with a blend of silk fluff and hair from special sheep. That pillow alone would have cost a few months’ saved up coin for a farmer. If not more, since silk was so dear, he remembered that Mother had silk ribbon trim on a few of her dresses, and one positively extravagant one that had a panel inset at the bust that had been worn for Fergus and Oriana’s wedding. Moira shuddered, snuffling quietly, the shaking of her body really the only sign of just how bad the sobbing was. Sometimes the quieter a heaving sob was, the worse the pain._ _

__Gingerly Ferox sat on the side of the bed. “Moira...” He hesitated for a moment before laying a hand on her back, rubbing it the way he would for Eleanor when she fussed. “I dunno what to do to make it right, an’ I don’t think there’s anything that can be done to make it right.” He asked at the time and was told to be happy with what they had, tried to be content with that and tried not to think or to look at what hadn’t been saved._ _

__“Was stupid,” she choked. “Should’ve, I should’ve known. Some of them...some of them helped. At-at first.”_ _

__“Not stupid, naive. And not just you either. Want to believe that everybody’s goin’ to do the right thing and that’s not how it works, as Zev says, not here an’ not anywhere.” Shaking his head, “If there was any stupid, it was thinking that the situation could change just because we were there.”_ _

__Moira squeezed the pillow before letting it fall away in favour of clinging to him again. “I should have _known_. After Arl Howe...we should have all known better.” _ _

__It was impossible not to stiffen at that name, not to feel a withdrawal even if he hadn’t moved. Still hate, hate, hated that man, still felt the flush of anger fresh and hot and yet a big old icicle was frozen, planted right here in his chest reaching up his throat to strangle him._ _

__“What did Howe do?” Had he thought that precise crispness was something left behind on the roadside somewhere? Wished it had the decency to be left behind and forgotten. What was he going to do? Kill him twice? Dig him up and burn him? _Correction, find his body, dig it up or reassemble the ashes, and then... What? Gut him again. And again.__ _

__“He’s right, we were slaves,” shaking and shuddering with her face buried in his thigh. “That...that Thomas Howe. Just like his father. They-they-” a broken sniff, “sing songs, tell stories. ‘Bout the good lord that treats people good. That there’s always good people in charge, that think and plan and don’t bother anyone.”_ _

__“What did Thomas do?” Rumour was that Thomas was at Ostagar, not that Ferox saw him. Would have thought that the conniving, scheming little rat would have gotten out of that duty. Or that Rendon would have put him in charge of the force that came to Highever and gotten his second son away from the real battle._ _

__Moira shook her head, “Used to catch animals and set them on fire. Once there was a bad fire of at a brothel that kicked him out. No one could prove anything, but a few of the buildings around it were caught in the blaze too. People wound up homeless and lost their businesses, and some people died, all burned up.” Her recitation picked up speed, “There was talk of pit fights with mabari, and wolves, and homeless people, cripples, and such. Edric never - Edric didn’t say, he just kept quiet when the litter he was raising got taken. You don’t stand up to Arl Howe or Thomas. Everybody knows that. And even if anything could ever be proved - where would we go? Who would we tell? It’d just get back to Arl Howe, and bad things would happen, and nothing would change, or if it did, it’d be worse. If anyone even got that far... Keep quiet, make no sound, don’t be noticed. Don’t ever be noticed, Mama said. Then Nathaniel was sent away, he was always showing up at the blackmarket healer, always, always. Once he thrashed Thomas damn good, damn good, pulling him away. After that - he was gone. No one knows, everyone thought Howe had killed him. Killed his own son - what couldn’t he do? What didn’t he do?” Hiccuping, “We were slaves already, anything’s better than that was, nearly anything was better.”_ _

__Did Father know? He couldn’t have...should have. Was there just not enough to be rid of him? Or was Howe that good at covering his tracks? Threatening or glossing over? Something there in the entry hall had made his hackles go up, but what was there to put a finger on? To pin it down and say this was what’s wrong...nothing until it was too late and even then they didn’t want to believe it, no matter how many doors they opened or held shut._ _

___Moma,_ biting his thumb, Ferox gave himself other pain to focus on. _ _

__“No. I don’t believe that everyone were slaves. Howe was bad.” The arl should have been cut out of what was good, before he spoiled the entire batch, taking Loghain with him. Rendon’s evil didn’t mean that everyone else was bad either, nor did it make Ferox cruel too. Flailing for a solution, “Fergus coulda been put there in his place, somebody who knew what they were doin’...Delilah...one of Wulff’s sons, it wouldn’t have been like that.”_ _

___I coulda done it_ , he would have been thought too young and inexperienced. _ _

__“We were slaves there, Ferox, we were,” tears were dashed from her cheeks with shaking hands. “And no one could say anything. Seneschal Varel, he tried so hard to keep the worst off. He helped get us on the boat. I don’t think he knew, I really don’t. He tried to say, once, and then his lover, he went missin’. So he kept quiet, just tried to keep everything together. Slaves there, slaves here. It doesn’t matter, all that’s really different is the name. And...and maybe they’ll be treated better here.”_ _

__Whether or not it was true, he nodded. It didn’t matter, not what he thought, not what she thought, what was done was done, past was past and there was no changing it. Biting his tongue to keep from arguing or seeing a way out or whatever he was doing, it wasn’t ever truly accepting, was just not looking, pretending it wasn’t there and couldn’t affect him. Nothing he did would change any of it, never evers._ _

__“You’re right.” What else could he say to reassure her? Owning up and picking up his end of the blame, “You should rinse off, so Ani doesn’t go throwin’ herself on the floor again apologizing. We...I should’ve said what I knew sooner. Even if I didn’t want to think about it, I was wrong, Moira. I’m sorry.”_ _

__Her arms wrapped around him, and Moira pressed her damp face into the side of his neck. “Do you think that what Ani and Zev say is true? That they’ll have chances? Chances that we didn’t have in Ferelden? Not...not that there are much chances there now. Not with how torn up it is. It’ll take...take generations before it’s back the way it was.”_ _

__“Without a sizeable workforce, it’s gonna take more than a few generations,” patting her back. Not his problem, one he gave away to Alistair - Alistair’s problem. “But, the people here - “ he wasn’t going to say ‘slaves’ “ - the ones who work out on Zev’s plantation, they know how to read and write and not just their own language, a lot of them speak both Antivan and Common too, and they can do more than just count on their fingers. They’re well fed and seem to be happy, really happy, not just a polite face they wear when company’s around.”_ _

__To him those on the plantation were vassals, farmers, artisans, and not slaves. They deserved as much respect as any freeholder. And they were as trusted as loyal servants, seen to their health and comfort as assiduously as anyone could ever hope to be seen to. They were allowed industry, education, chances for progress, more time off than any Ferelden farmer or artisan could ever pray to get and still keep everyone fed and clothed. Zevran’s people were some of the most well-adjusted individuals he had ever seen. Last year one of the older folks had wanted to join the Chantry, and without thought, Zevran had gone through the lengthy process of legally freeing Svetlana who sent regular letters of a theological nature and on her studies. She hoped to return to be the spiritual counselor and guide for La Villa Bonita once she was done. Instead of the typical slave brand, slave _tattoos_ were applied not at birth, but when they were about ten he figured. He hadn’t seen enough of other plantations to really judge and compare, but he did know from Vela that most owners would have had him drowned as an infant for his very obvious deformities - frell, a Ferelden midwife might’ve considered exposing the child. But what a loss that would’ve been, because Vela’s mind was probably one of the closest to Zevran’s for details and numbers he had ever come across. Give Ferelden ten Velas, and the willingness to actually listen, and the country might turn around much more quickly._ _

__But that still wasn’t his problem._ _

__“Thomas is dead and I killed Howe. Doesn’t mean that somebody else isn’t going to come fill an’ in the void they left, but it doesn’t mean that we have to let them do it either. My head’s too used to crackin’ itself against walls, and a sense of right takes a-hold of me, even if it would be easier to do the wrong thing, I don’t tend to.”_ _

__“Varel’s in charge, or he was...if the darkspawn didn’t get him,” her bottom lip was worried slowly. “Lord Loghain may be. I just remember Varel trying to keep things together, and when some of us wanted to leave, he helped us find a ship.”_ _

__“I don’t know. When Alistair became king, it became his duty and responsibility. He knew what he was gettin’ into...at least as much as we could know.” That wasn’t exactly the truth, as the man had been set up, didn’t seem too terribly upset afterwards...okay, after that little outburst Alistair wasn’t all that upset, but maybe it was because Ferox wasn’t paying attention in the effort to remain on his feet that day. Kissing her cheek, he hugged tighter for a moment, “Our troubles are what’s in front of us. We can only affect what’s right here within our arm’s reach. My arms don’t reach to Ferelden. Right now, they can only reach you. When we go downstairs, there’ll be more we can reach out and take care of. If you find a way to reach farther, do it, but make sure that you can handle what you’ve already got. Lecture’s over,” a grin twisting his cheeks. Didn’t feel like smiling or laughing - he still felt like hitting something._ _

__Moira squeezed him again, “Thank you.” Lips that were a little chapped pressed to his cheek, “For everything.”_ _

__It wasn’t just about being present, but also for the old things. That little sleepy loaf bundle in his hands, held close, while they all had dinner that night, such a simple little meal, but it had been everything. When Elissa’s milky blue eyes had blinked at him and a teeny, tiny nose scrunched with a yawn, that was why he had done it. He had been a real hero right then, and was shown the fruits of his labour. Moira’s present hug and thanks, was that again, how something as simple as a hug could pull another from the brink._ _

__Hand in hand, they rejoined those who were important to them._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There were more chapters planned, and Ch10 is in chunks, but nowhere near finished...so...this is the last finished chapter of Dream a Little Dream, which means...on to editing and publishing the next in this freakin' enormous metaverse. Briala just got finished with a move and is trying to settle in, plus has some big work projects coming up. I'm about to do a move from Germany back to the States and then have a big workload dumped on me, so there won't be much in the way of new writing done for awhile. But there's lots of material to edit and post in the interim.


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